


I'll Tell You No Lies

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Batjokes, Dark Multiverse, Dark Nights: Metal - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Origin Story, Pining, Psychological Trauma, So much pining guys, Unrequited Love, dc metal, light batjokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 29,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: Earth-22.  One mistake was all it took.  In the months that pass after Bruce accidentally kills a hired gun, he must reevaluate his life, his methods, and his mission.  He remembers everything the Joker has ever said to him, every taunt he ever made, every similarity they share, and this time he's listening.  This time he gets the joke.An alternative to the origin of The Batman Who Laughs.  Readable without having read any of the Dark Nights: Metal series, more details inside.Edit: new bonus chapter!





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The origin stories of all of the Dark Knights from Metal deserved their own six part mini series in my opinion. Such rich characters with complicated pasts, it's a downright shame we'll never see them again. I loved all of their origins, so to have The Batman Who Laughs's origin to be what it was was.... disappointing. I felt like they'd stumbled on a gold mine and did not comprehend the depth of character, the true opportunity they had to have a conversation about the similarities between Batman and Joker. So I thought I'd take a crack at it.
> 
> Again, if you have not read Dark Nights: Metal, you can still read this. The only information from it that you need to know is that this takes place on Earth-22, which is an alternate universe in an alternate multiverse, called the dark multiverse. The universes there are doomed to collapse and die due to their instability. The Batman Who Laughs is *not* the Joker in a batsuit, he is a corrupted, compromised version of Bruce Wayne, who he could have been if one thing happened differently.
> 
> As it says in the summary, this is a weekly story, with new chapters posting every Monday. I will try to keep the hour of the posts as consistent as possible. Some of the chapters are very short, and those will be succeeded by a new chapter the next day, which I will remind of in the notes at the end of the chapter.

_Earth-22_

 

\----------

It’s everywhere.

It’s in me.It’s in you.It’s in him.And him.

It is the carrier of life.And a sign of death.

Suffocating, he’s suffocating.Everything’s running red, and cold.How much longer can his muscles hold him up.How much longer can his lungs draw breath.How much more can he do.How much longer can they chase each other.How much more blood can spill.

Blood.So much blood.It’s everywhere.It’s in his his eyes, it’s on his hands, it haunts his dreams. 

The metallic sting of blood pools in Bruce’s mouth.The clown got a lucky shot straight to his teeth.He spits, and the next time that fist swings, he grips it and breaks the wrist.Joker cackles.A solid kick to the knee loosens Bruce’s grip, but a well-placed foot trips Joker as he wiggles free.His laughter mocks Bruce as he presses his good knee between Joker’s shoulder blades and slaps on the cuffs.He hoists the clown up by the chain - literally lifting his entire body with one arm - sets him on his feet and forces him to the car.

“Another job well done, eh, Bats?” Joker projects for the whole force to hear.“Pity the kiddies didn’t get to see you do it.I bet it would make them feel better in their current... predicament.”More insipid laughter.

Bruce jolts him to a halt and unceremoniously smashes his forehead against the trunk of a police cruiser.It leaves a small impression.Joker makes quiet, dizzy noises when Bruce pushes him forward again.

“I love when you do that,” Joker purrs, for Bruce’s ears alone, “all of it.  Holding me down, tightening the pretty bracelets, handling me,” he chuckles and lets his head fall back against the Bat’s armored chest, exposing his throat.  “We have fun, don’t we?”

Bruce throws him into the batmobile.“Fun’s over.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” Joker bubbles, “why I’m sure the little rugrats are having the time of their shortening lives.Tick tock, Batty cakes.”

Bruce punches his lights out.

\---------- 

 

They find the kids.

Joker breaks out.

 

\---------- 

“No one is beyond saving,” Clark assures him.“I’ll be administering their treatment myself.They need to deal with someone they can’t hurt.”

Bruce looks down at the child victims of the Joker’s toxin, and feels the truth settle cold and heavy in his bones.

They’re lost.

 

\---------- 

It’s a little out of character for Scarecrow to have as many cronies as he does tonight.Nothing Bruce hasn’t handled before.On the contrary, he’s handled much worse, and gone home the victor.Tonight will be no different.He knocks out enough of them to make an escape and run after Crane. 

Smoke pellets erupt in front of him; Crane’s toxin in a new form.But an old formula.He doesn’t need his gas mask.Crane sends wooden moving crates toppling to the ground in a pathetic attempt at slowing him down.He corners the doctor and slams him against a wall.

“Careful, Batman,” Crane sounds far too smug behind that taunting mask, “I’d retrace my steps if I were you.I think you missed a few details.”

It is only then that he hears the muffled coughs of small lungs.He hadn’t thought, it’d never even occurred to him —

Frantic, he pries the boxes open one by one.Frightened children, ages eight to eleven, he’d guess, twitch and jerk in fear as the hallucinations overtake them.The youngest, a small girl in a pink dress with Wonder Woman’s crest on it, screams shrill and murderous when the Bat is revealed behind the wood. 

“It’s okay,” he says, “it’s okay, I’m here to help you.  You’re safe.”

The kids don’t believe him.He radios Jim.When the police arrive, he takes off after Crane again.As slick as he is he doesn’t always have the getaway car primed and waiting.More cronies are waiting for him just as Crane is getting in the back of a nondescript car.Bruce throws a tracker on it but memorizes the plate for good measure.Then the violence begins, and it’s satisfying to get a few punches in for the looks in those kids’ eyes when he freed them.

“Crane said you’ve been havin’ bad luck with kids lately,” one idiot mocks.“Heard he only picked those ones up just to get to ya.I’d say it worked.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the prattle, instead breaking his friend’s leg and dislocating the shoulder.Another he knocks out with an elbow to the temple.Another he puts under his boot, stomps a kidney, and punches unconscious when he tries to get up.That just leaves the talker.Who happens to be a slightly better fighter.

“I got some friends in Joker’s crew,” the hired help continues, blood smeared on his lips and under his nose, “they say he messed ‘em up real bad.”

The thug misses, misses again, misses a third time, and here leaves his core exposed so Bruce snaps to and kicks him in the lower abdomen.Then delivers a solid uppercut when he attempts to recover; somehow he doesn’t fall forward again, but stumbles it off.Laughing, he spits out blood and what might be part of a tooth. 

“Hope Crane doesn’t find out just _how_ bad,” the thug continues, and Bruce just wants to shut him up, “he might want to fight over them.Or team up.I don’t know which would suck more.”

His opponent charges, with no skill whatsoever.Bruce takes him down easily with a charge of his own, aiming for the stomach and carry-punching him to the ground.They fight it out behind clenched teeth.Bruce is the first to regain his footing, and he uses the momentum to throw the thug head first into a wall.Turning him by his head, he punches out two (one and a half) teeth.His opponent sputters, tries to say something clever, but Bruce smashes his forehead into the wall again.Blood stays behind.

“You’ve lost it,” the man spits.He pulls another knife.Bruce snaps it without even looking down.The man wails, and tries for a kick; Bruce blocks.He strikes with his good arm.Blocked, blocked, headbutt.His opponent stumbles.In a sudden surge of adrenaline, the thug plants his feet solid and throws his entire might in to the reflex.

It was supposed to be a fist.Bruce blocked the strike easily from the inside with his left forearm.The counter attack was one last knuckle to the temple.It would have knocked him unconscious this time.It was supposed to be a fist.It wasn’t a fist.In a reflex as sudden as his opponent’s, Bruce’s hand thrust its heel forward, at an upward angle, square to the man’s nose.

There’s a snap.

He drops.

Batman has broken many bones.Some of them his, most belonging to others.He knows the difference in sound between an impact and a break.He knows the difference in sound between a bone _hit_ by a crowbar and a bone _broken_ by a crowbar.He knows the difference in sound between a bone broken by a crowbar and by a wood bat, or metal bat, or metal rod, or any number of objects.He knows the difference in sound between a sprain or a break on cement.Most of all, he knows the difference in sound between an unconscious body dropping to the ground, and that of a dead one.

He’s not supposed to hear a dead one.Not by his own hand.

He is frozen, a deer in the headlights.He needs to approach, to double check, but he does not want to, because he already knows the answer.An outside force moves one foot in front of the other, the boots feeling heavier with each step.His cape ghosts along the corpse as he walks and crouches next to the neck.He checks, hopelessly, for a pulse.One look at the nameless man’s mangled, bloody face, is enough.

The man is dead.

Batman killed him.

Oddly, Bruce’s first thought is how it looks like the man is bereft of a nose, when in reality it’s just on the inside now.That string of words brings on a wave of nausea; not at the gore but at his own mind.The blood is catching up to him now.There are but droplets on his glove, but everywhere else, it looks like it was a massacre, rather than just one man.The stranger’s dark skin is striped darker, his gray wife-beater soaked black.The wine-red liquid exaggerates the texture of the cement under his head.His eyes are closed; the self preservation reflex when sudden objects approach the eyes. 

He’s just a kid, really.No older than twenty four.Never older than twenty four.

Batman is gone.There is only Bruce Wayne, here.Traumatized, eight year old Bruce Wayne, staring at his parents, crumbled before him on the ground, blood oozing from fresh wounds.Somewhere in the distance, far, far away in the world of reality, police sirens scream.But there will be no comfort from Detective Gordon, no shock blanket, no warm tea.There is only cold, and blood.So much blood.He does what a frightened eight year old boy can only do.

He runs.

 

\----------


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t feel the batsuit come off.

 

He doesn’t feel the cold water on his skin.

 

The pillow under his head feels like cement.

 

Somewhere, he hears someone ask if he’s alright.

 

 

.


	3. Chapter 3

He sleeps for twenty hours. There’s a sandwich, protein shake, and tea waiting for him on the nightstand.

 

Someone kicked the door in to get it there.

 

 

.


	4. Chapter 4

“I cannot believe you insisted on sitting through that movie again, Bruce. Come on, we’ll be late for Alfred.”

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

“Go easy on him, Tom, he loved it so. Alfred will wait. Keep up, Bruce.”

 

 

.


	5. Chapter 5

He fixes the door. Reinforces it shut. The curtains part with an accusatory scrape.

His sits cross-legged in the square of sun and escapes so far in to himself that he may never return. So he can hope.

 

 

.


	6. Chapter 6

His mind is a furious current of blood-stained water. Its memory chip knows his victim’s name, immediate family, criminal record, high school GPA, but none of that matters. Save the name. The name is in the water. The name is in the blood. Darren Wilson. Friends call him Daredevil. Called him Daredevil.

He falls to his hands and knees in the water, staring at his blood-stained reflection. The reflections of his masters greet him. His voice is underwater, though his head is not.

“It was an accident,” he pleads. Their cold, hard countenances are unforgiving.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like that.”

“He didn’t suffer. Did he suffer?”

“…I failed.”

The current washes over him. Swallows him. He lies limp in the river, letting it toss him about as it pleases. When it throws him off the edge, he does not fight.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Thunder shakes half the continent. Or was it a gunshot.

 

 

.


	8. Chapter 8

“Where are you taking us?”

“We can cut through here.”

“But it’s starting to rain, Bruce is tired, can’t we just wait for him here?”

“Come on, keep up, we’re nearly there.”

 

 

.


	9. Chapter 9

Voices try to permeate his sleep. He rejects them.

 

 

.


	10. Chapter 10

“Tom!Oh God, Tom!”

 

“Daddy!”

 

“Quiet lady, or I’ll shoot.”

 

“Run, Bruce, ru—”

 

 

.


	11. Chapter 11

Someone is whispering to him. A voice from another time, another universe, trying to help him. An old friend, from far away. He struggles to hear as the other voices intrude further.

The world is losing color. Red runs gray, the alley disappears, all that’s left is the streetlight, small flickers of amber like a candle in the wind. He reaches for it. He has to hear. He has to know.

Yes, a very old friend. As old as time. And it wants him to know —

 

 

.


	12. Chapter 12

  
He is surrounded. He jolts awake and strikes the readiest vulnerability. His son — one of his sons — yelps as he’s pushed on his ass. Everyone backs up. Six bodies.

“Yeah, he’s awake,” Tim grumbles, rubbing the back of his head.

“What happened,” Bruce growls, rough from sleep.

“You tell us,” Dick says, “you’ve been locked up in here for ten days.”

Bruce counts in his head. There are only three bodies. “Not possible.”

“Very damn possible,” Dick stresses.

“I haven’t had any water,” Bruce insists.

Dick nods to something behind him. On the nightstand sits a dozen empty glasses. “Alfred convinced us to leave you alone. Didn’t bother making any food. Every time we came back you were in the exact same spot, like you hadn’t moved, but the glass was empty. Today’s day ten, Bruce, day ten.”

“If we knew what caused it maybe we’d let you have your episode in peace but even Alfred didn’t know, and that’s a red flag,” Barbara says.

“I just need to think,” Bruce reassumes his position on the floor.

“You’ve been thinking for ten days,” Dick crosses his arms. “Care to share?”

“It’s nothing any of you need to worry about.”

“Wow,” Tim whistles, “you weren’t even trying to lie.”

“I’m fine, I just,” he hesitates, “need to be alone.”

Barbara folds her legs and sits in front of him. “Bruce,” she says, concern making her eyes glisten, and making Bruce’s heart wretch, “whatever it is, you can trust us. Maybe if you talked it out it could help you think? That’s what the rest of us do,” she lets herself smile.

He doesn’t return it. “Please, just go.”

Tim makes a sound of irritation. Dick lets his head sag, and shakes it. The concern in Barbara’s eyes glistens more. Against their best instincts, they leave.

He tries to put himself under again, but it won’t take. He can’t stop seeing Barbara’s eyes, and how for a second there, they made him think that maybe someday he could move on... maybe someday he could be forgiven. His head falls into his hands. There can be no forgiving the atrocity he’s committed. He’s got the black spot and he’ll never shed it.

“I’m sorry.”

—————

He trains. He beats the shit out of the dummies and bags; he hits every bullseye with three batarangs; he adds a new level of difficulty to the training program: enemies and civilians. It measures the severity of every impact and calculates the probability of a fatality. He never aims for the face.

Alfred brings him a steady stream of protein-high food, which he always finishes. He sleeps when his body collapses from exhaustion. Alfred has found him passed out on the padded floor of the training area, on the cold, hard surface of the arena floor, on the gurney in the med bay, in the shower room, once with the water on. The butler’s heart jumps into his throat every time, and he rushes to check his charge’s pulse. Being unable to lift him, Alfred has no choice but to bring him a pillow and blanket and let him sleep where he lays. His concern grows worse each day, but he shares little with the others and says nothing to Bruce. Without knowing the problem he can do little towards a solution.

A full month passes with no sign of the Batman. People speculate that he is injured, or hiding, or on vacation. Someone claims to have spotted him in Star City.

The elevator signals Alfred’s return. Bruce is doing sit-ups, upside down, his legs hooked over a metal bar. His abdomen burns hot with the effort; it’s a welcome pain. When the elevator touches ground, four pairs of feet approach. Alfred does not carry a tray, only unwanted company.

“Bruce,” Barbara starts, “we need to talk.”

“Talk all you want,” Bruce grunts.

“To you,” she clarifies, “about this. You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Tim chokes on air. “‘Don’t be dramatic?’ Do you know what we do? We’re midnight theater and you wrote the script.”

“Knock it off, Tim,” Dick interjects. He softens his voice, “Bruce, we know what happened.”

Bruce stops, only for a moment.

“I can’t imagine what you must feel like, I know how important your one rule is. But it was an accident. You were defending yourself, you had to act fast, and it happened. In a court of law you wouldn’t be guilty of murder. It wasn’t murder, Bruce, it was an accident.”

He tries to keep calm. “Does Damian know?”

“No,” Dick says, “he’s been staying with the Titans. Jason knows. And Alfred, but you probably knew that. So, can we please talk about it?”

Bruce’s anger builds. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to us,” Barbara asks, “let us help you get through this.”

The anger peaks. He swings down. “I don’t want to ‘get through this,’” he snaps, “I don’t want to be okay with this. Batman is supposed to be a symbol of hope, not another one who kills to solve their problems.”

“You didn’t use it,” Tim says, “you made a mistake. People make mistakes. You taught us to do whatever we gotta to do make up for a mistake then move on. Don’t let it destroy you. You always say we’re stronger than that. It goes for you too.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Children. That’s what you are. My children. Children make mistakes and need to move on. Adults have to live with it.”

“I’m not your child,” Barbara says, her own anger building. “You’re choosing to let it affect you for the rest of your life. Is Batman dead, then? Is that what you want? You want to take him away from the people that need him because of one mistake?”

“This isn’t ‘just a mistake,’” he bellows, closing the space between them. Without her boots Barbara is almost a head shorter, but she glares up at him like she could stomp him into the mud. If it’d knock this out of him, she will. “Darren Wilson. He had a name, a family. I’m no better than them if I can just walk away from it.”

Dick says, “We’re not asking you to walk away from it—”

“Go,” Bruce is angry, but there’s defeat in his voice as well. He turns his back, revealing cuts only days old. He listens as reluctant footsteps walk away. The elevator screeches up the century-old-yet-recently-rebuilt shaft. (Alfred thought it gave it character. It doubles as a good doorbell.) Only one pair of feet stayed where they were. He walks to the gym to tape his wrists and ankles. Dick follows.

“You know I can’t just leave it alone,” Dick says, “not when it’s this bad.” Bruce keeps his back to his oldest son. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head but I know what it’s doing to you, and this, this is beyond your usual.” Nothing. So he tries the big one: “I’ve never been scared for you before.”

Bruce freezes. Every muscle in his back and shoulders just seized.

“You didn’t take all of us in just to push us away. You didn’t train us just to not let us work with you.” He dares to step forward, at the bottom of the three steps up to the gym floor. “Situations like this are the reason we have other people.” One stair. Then two. His hand hovers above Bruce’s shoulder. “We can’t help you if you won’t let us.”

Bruce’s head hangs, just for a moment, before he straightens to his full height, and rolls his shoulders. Dick retracts his hand so it won’t touch. He knows what that means. “I don’t want your help. Now go.”

If Dick takes the elevator, he can’t tell. No sound is reaching his ears except the pulse in his veins. He tapes his wrists and ankles. He hangs a bag, anger and confusion and the tiniest hint of fear and regret giving him strength to hang it with one arm. He delivers the first blow. A second. A third. A roundhouse kick. His next punch breaks someone’s teeth, then their nose.

He collapses. Head buried in his hands on the ground, he breathes, and trembles, and tries his hardest to keep the tears at bay. He stays like that all night, his only goal not to cry.

Alfred finds him in the morning on his side in the fetal position, dried tear trails making his skin shine in the dim light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you could leave a comment and share your thoughts it’d make my day. See you next week! <3


	13. Chapter 13

When he woke he readied his jet for a flight to Nepal. The pilot and stewardesses were put up in a five star hotel with a Wayne Enterprises platinum credit card and told to stay put until he returned. Assuming that he was taking a rich man’s overpriced zen journey in a foreign country, they asked no questions. One medium-sized backpack carried the only worldly possessions he needs, none of which are a cell phone, GPS, or radio. As it had been so many years ago, when he was young and angry and needed guidance.

A small settlement welcomes him inside to thaw from the wind and ice. He takes up refuge in a small, unused shack, fixing all the broken boards, holes, hinges, and supports to make it a proper shelter. Perhaps one day its previous owners will return, or it can be repurposed after he leaves. He unrolls the travel sleep pad and blanket he packed once the floor is dried. When he’s ready, he lights the incense and takes form.

And stays like that, only leaving the shack to hunt and relieve himself. The villagers do not disturb him; for the most part they forget he exists. Before he leaves, he will repair every building that needs it, as a thank you for their hospitality.

Two months. He finds his center. It’s time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you’ve got a minute, share your thoughts with me? <3


	14. Chapter 14

The city’s night life is different. There’s a tension in the air, a settling of anxiety. Three months without the Bat, even with Batgirl and Robin still defending the innocent, changed the atmosphere. He’s here to set it back.

He grapples up one of the tallest church towers to survey his city. The others don’t know he’s back yet. His communicator, locator, and connection to the batcomputer are offline. Tonight it’s just himself, trying to make it right. Make it make sense again.

He sees an improper shape descending from the dark clouds. It pushes through into the open air, and it is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. Electric green with purple firework detailing, the bloated dirigible boasts the Joker’s visage, adorned with a crown, in a cartoonish style.

“Hellooooo Gotham, King Joker here!” a familiar, grating voice bellows out the massive speakers. “I’ve been thinking. It’s been over three months now since the flying rodent was spotted brooding on a gargoyle. We’ve had a lot of fun together trying to flush him out. I’m starting to worry for him. I mean, how’s a King supposed to rule without his Knight?” He tuts. “No no, can’t do. So here’s what’s gonna happen: I’ve got a lot of bombs — the firey kind and the smiley kind — in a lot of houses. I’m pretty sure they’re people I hate but I’m bad with names. I have more bombs on this blimp.” His voice changes here. The entertainer is gone, the murderous madman surfaces. “If someone killed him, they better speak up, because I’m about done with this town, and I’m quite happy to wipe it off the map.”

He’ll need the Batwing or one of his gliders to reach the blimp. Calling for one of those would require turning on his comm. But Joker sounded more serious than Bruce has ever heard, and he can’t afford the risk. He turns on the connection to the batcomputer and programs the autopilot for the Batwing. He activates his comm. It doesn’t take long.

 _“Bruce? Is that you?”_ Barbara’s voice asks.

 _“Better be you,”_ Tim adds.

“Batgirl, Red Robin,” he orders, “I need you on the ground. Find those bombs. Tell the Commissioner to evacuate the southern district, below the blimp. I’m going up there.”

“ _Okay_.”

_“On it.”_

Right on time, the Batwing approaches. It slows to allow Bruce to grapple up, and then he is in the clouds. When he is above the blimp, hidden by the clouds, he sets the auto to return home and jumps out. He lands on his feet, cape enveloping him.

Breaking in is easy. Taking out the lackeys is easier. Joker will be in the control room, on the underside of the structure. He’s light on his feet and quick on reflex. His instincts tell him where his attackers are before they see him, no detective vision needed. He finds their openings and weak points with only a glance. His strikes are controlled, and exactly the right force for maximum effectivity. When he reaches the long stretch of hallway that leads to the control room, he almost feels like himself again.

He inspects the door for traps. There’s an explosive on the other side, most likely activated by a trip wire attached to the handle. He sprays the opposite side with a light amount of gel, takes a few steps back, and detonates. Conflicted by the opposing forces, the door snaps off its hinges and bounces in the door frame before caving in to the room.

A bullet hits him square in the forehead. He feels the impact, though it’s just a tap. The dust settles, and he sees the Joker, arm extended, gun pointed, feet planted and shoulders solid. A testament to just how serious he can be, when he wants to. Bruce squares his shoulders.

“This was your big plan to flush me out?” Bruce belittles, “level the city? I would have expected something more creative.”

“I got impatient,” Joker says simply, “you know me.”

Unfortunately, he does. “Well, here I am. Now drop it.”

“‘Drop it?’ If you say so.”

He feels a mechanism working under his boots. A few seconds later, he hears an explosion, that leads to another explosion; a bomb dropped on another bomb. Joker, grinning maniacally, reveals the tiny trigger he had hidden between his fingers.

Bruce launches into action.

It’s the same fight. The same dance. Every time. Though he’ll never admit it, the familiar rhythm really is the best way to slot himself back into his role. This is easy. This isn’t complicated. No grey lines. Joker is evil. Batman stops evil. Joker is a symbol of death, Batman is a symbol of hope. He’ll bring Joker to Arkham in cuffs and the balance will be temporarily in place.

Joker’s loving it. He’s animated, his movements are cartoonish yet targeted, his smile looks like genuine glee when Bruce blocks a shot, and again. There’s a violent affection in those acid green eyes. Normally this sets him on edge, but at the moment it’s so familiar, so uncomplicated in comparison, that he’s fine with it. As long as this ends correctly, with Joker in cuffs and not dead, that’s all that matters.

But he’s certainly not making it easy.

Tim and Barbara are in his ear. The charges are on four estimated frequencies so he can deactivate multiple at once, but the evacuation needs at least another fifteen minutes. He needs to keep Joker occupied or entertained at least long enough for one to happen first. But there’s still the matter of all the explosives on the blimp.

“Where’d you go, anyway?” Joker asks conversationally. He blocks a hit then takes one, and laughs. “I know you’re a world-class brooder but three months is awful long —” another blow, another airy laugh, “— even by your standards. Somebody die?”

The comment makes Bruce freeze just long enough for Joker to pull the knife out of his inner pocket and stab him between two plates. Grunting, he uppercuts Joker under his chin, hard enough to at least crack a tooth. Joker stumbles and giggles.

“Who are we kidding? Of course someone did.” Joker’s voice is ravenous, hungry, yet sultry. “You never forget your first time, too. How was it?”

Bruce kicks Joker’s knees out; he catches himself on his hands and narrowly dodges the kick to his face. In the same motion he gets back on his feet. “C’mon, Bats, you can tell me. I won’t blab. Pinky swear.” Bruce tries to twist Joker’s arm behind his back, but he slips it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Finishing the job?” He’s dodging more effectively now, but not retaliating, too hung up on his words. “Knowing you’re stronger? Knowing you’re the larger threat? Knowing you can? ‘Cause you know you can, now.”

“You know nothing,” Bruce sneers.

Joker open-hands him across the cheek. “I know some things.” He returns the favor from earlier and kicks the back of Bruce’s knee so hard that he’s on the ground. “I know it was one of Jonny’s boys. I know it was no one special. And,” he giggles, pats Bruce’s head between the ears, “I know it wasn’t an accident. Not really. You’ve been sitting on that for a long time.”

Bruce gets to his feet and tries again, but he can feel himself slipping. “To be honest,” Joker sighs, “I was always kind of hoping I’d be your first.” He side steps and gets Bruce in the shoulder with that damned knife. Bruce sees him grinning maniacally in his peripheral vision. “Oh well.”

Bruce headbutts him and pulls the knife out himself to get it away. His rage returns, accompanied by something unknown, unpleasant, troubling, frightening, he does the only thing he knows to do when he’s afraid. He attacks with all his might. Closer and closer to the windows, where the force of his blows eventually shatters the glass. Joker catches a rail. He’s laughing, blood trickling into his mouth.

“Oh, Bats,” he coughs, struggling to maintain his grip but still sounding affectionate. “You’re not all there yet, are you?” He nods over Bruce’s shoulder. There’s a timer counting down; Joker must have flipped a switch when Bruce was working him towards the window. “All the bombs on this balloon are going kaboom at the end of that.” He’s straining with the effort. “Kill me to save them, save me and kill who cares how many. Tick tock.”

Bruce hits a few buttons on his gauntlet. At the confirmation he rushes to the control panel to stop the countdown. He hears Joker laugh as he falls, but the laughter stops shortly. Seven, six, five…

Done.

He returns to the broken glass. Joker is sulking on the roof of the Batwing, arms wrapped around his legs. “You ruin all the fun,” he mumbles. Bruce will take that as a battle won. But then Joker shrugs, and is smiling again. “Then again, I’ve never been one for a fair fight.” Instinct makes Bruce jump.

The explosion is deafening. For a moment everything around him is orange and yellow. He can’t see the Batwing, or Joker, but he knows how far they were. He barely has his footing when he hits the remote pilot to get them away. He has to hope that Tim and Barbara were able to clear the area below. There’s smoke in his lungs and eyes. When they finally clear the flames and smoke, Joker is gone. Bruce looks down in time to see a parachute deflate. He’s having difficulty getting enough air in his lungs to tell Tim or Barbara. Instead he takes a moment to clamber into the jet and breathe. Old, he thinks; not for the first time. He’s getting old. Old, and careless.

The area was evacuated successfully. Only a few dead. Dozens injured. Joker slipped through the cracks. They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about his return, either. Or where he went. Instead Barbara goes home on her bike, Tim goes home on his, and Bruce takes the jet. In the batcave they don’t talk much. Bruce tells Tim “well done,” which is rare but not unheard of. Bruce hosing down the batsuit and under armor in his briefs is a little uncommon. Tim says nothing to him, describes the night in great detail to Alfred, and passes out face down on his bed.

Alfred brings Bruce dinner. He’s at the work bench, having found a pair of pants, repairing the knife wounds to the suit. Alfred sets the tray down and, noting the concentration on his charge’s face, does not attempt a conversation. He only puts a warm hand on Bruce’s shoulder and says, softly, “welcome back, sir,” and gives Bruce his space. Bruce scratches his eye and pretends it’s because of an itch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A comment would make my day, every day


	15. Chapter 15

Weeks pass. He finds Crane, now in custody. He finds Darren Wilson’s family. Wilson’s younger brother qualified for a Wayne Foundation scholarship. His name is added to the list of recipients, and the bank “forgives” the funeral costs. He formulates a pill that prevents him from dreaming.

He hasn’t deciphered how Joker found out. He’s had confrontations with a few of Gotham’s more notorious rogues, and apart from their colorful and repetitive banter they had nothing to say. He needs to revisit the location, but the dread keeps him away. He feels more or less like himself again and he can’t afford to compromise that yet. Joker hasn’t spread the news, so for now, he can prioritize other matters.

Until the clown holds up a bank. Then the only priority is putting him behind bars.

Bruce observes from an opposite rooftop. Joker hasn’t targeted a bank in years, nor operated in the daytime. No one watches fireworks in the daytime, he once said. And he does love his fireworks. Bruce can’t stand them anymore.

Bruce jumps down to talk to Gordon.

“What’re we looking at,” asks Gordon, gruffly.

“Sixteen hostages, one man on all of them, at least five in the vaults. Joker’s keeping himself away from the windows.”

“Great.” Gordon rubs his neck. “He hasn’t cared about money in a long time, why now?”

“Attention. My attention.”

Gordon huffs ironically. “Maybe we shouldn’t give him your attention.”

If I do that he might tell all of my enemies I killed someone. “It wouldn’t work.”

“I know.” Gordon fiddles irritably with his radio. “How do we do this, then?”

They strategize to rescue all the hostages and corner Joker. Unlike Gordon’s, however, Bruce’s personal plan is to take down Joker alone.

The raid of the lobby would have gone well if one officer hadn’t fired too early. It turned into a shootout, wherein three hostages were killed and two officers took bullets. It ruined Gordon’s opportunity to corner Joker, but Bruce will always chase him.

Joker flees to the roof — a strategy Bruce has never understood — and the fight begins again. Joker looks high on life, where Bruce feels nothing but rage. How much longer must they dance the endless dance.

Joker’s chattery again tonight. “How many times have you thought about killing me?” He taunts. “I know you have, I’ve seen it in your gorgeous blue eyes. How many times have you wanted to? How easy it would be? One hit, just one hit, and you’d save hundreds of lives in the long run.” A brutal punch in the gut, followed by a breathless laugh. “And now—” another hit, “— now you’ve gotten a taste for it.”

Joker punches him in the teeth. His grin is quite smug. “Who’s to say you won’t do it again?” Bruce kicks his feet out from under him. He lands in a heap of long limbs and giggles. “Not to me, of course. You’d miss me too much.” He’s quick to get back on his feet. “Miss our games, the sparks, the love, the way I make you smile,” he lands another shot to Bruce’s mouth, and laughs a victorious huff. “And the way I punch it off!” Before Bruce can retaliate, he blows out the knee Bruce put all his weight on. He goes down. Somewhere Joker found a piece of broken cement and cracks it in half on Bruce’s head, while ramming his knee into his jaw. Disoriented, Bruce can only wait until his head stops spinning. The clown takes his opportunity to keep talking.

“Once you’ve done it, there’s no goin’ back. Take it from me. You’ll do it again and you wanna know what?” He crouches to get on Bruce’s eye level. His grin is disgusting. “You’re gonna love it.” He cackles, loud, victorious, deep belly laughter. He falls down from the strain, and continues laughing as Bruce cuffs him, manhandles him to the street, and throws him in the back of the armored van. On a normal night this would stop the laughter. But there are no more normal nights, not anymore. He hears the laughter, faint and muffled by the bulletproof armor, but it’s there, and it’s there with him all the way home.

—————

A month turns to two months, turns to three, then he loses count. The neuropsychology textbooks engrained in his consciousness tell him that a prolonged lack of dreams can cause a myriad of physical and psychological ailments. But when he dreams, he only dreams of Joker, and Arkham, and a gurney, and a cold cell. He accepts the risks. Compromised immune and digestive systems, memory and emotional consolidation, depression, anxiety, he’ll take it all over hearing to that voice.

The most recent time Joker escaped Arkham he slipped them before they completed intake. Bruce has lost hope it will ever be able to hold him; he knows it too well now. But the GCPD are too determined and too proud to hand him over to another jurisdiction. Bruce wonders on occasion if it would make a difference. Or would it just be a welcome new challenge.

Those that dared commit crime after Joker’s escape — and the pills — get a beating unlike any other. One word was all it took. Harvey threatened to “break his skull.” Bruce fractured his. Cobblepot insulted his parents; Bruce snapped his femur. But the worst was Harley Quinn. She brought up a fight from a lifetime ago, when Joker was her whole life and Joker was, well, Joker.

“You might be smart but you didn’t spend eight years in med school learnin’ how to read people so you can help them. He tricked me, he tricked me good, and then he got me convincin’ myself that he cared about me ‘cause it amused him.”

Landing a hit on her can be difficult. She’s agile, and strong. Dick is more evenly matched with her acrobatic skills, but he had become his own man before she came in to the picture.

“Do you know how to hear the difference between what they say and what it really means? ‘Cause I do. I denied how much of a piece of shit he was to me but I’m not a fuckin’ moron and I saw the way he was around you. I saw the way he looked at you. And you wanna know what else I saw? I saw you.”

He could feel the anger rising, and he was afraid of it. Somewhere in there he knew he was losing it. He tried to end the fight, but she kept slipping through.

“I saw the way you fight him. I saw how much you gave as good as you got. You ate all his shit up, you enjoy it as much as he does. And you know what? I think you love him more than I did.”

Barbara had to step in between them. Hell, she actually had to fight him a little before he found his self control again. She’s been watching him since. Obviously Tim was informed. They’re not babysitting, but they’re on constant alert. He sees them watching, feels how tense they are. Tonight, though, Barbara’s spending time with her father, and Tim left early because a sinus infection is, frankly, kicking his ass. Alfred won’t tolerate an illness untreated. Tonight they’ve given him their trust that he can keep his head. It’s well placed, because he is in control. He is in total control.

When he sees the fireworks, he inhales deep, exhales deeper. Joker’s always been quick to get back to it, but it’s been too much too fast since The Incident. He’s destroying and murdering just to talk to the Bat. _I think you and I are destined to do this forever._

He’s tired. He’s so tired.

There are minimal goons to punch his way through. As he enters the derelict hotel, décor begins to emerge. First just balloons, black and yellow. Then the balloons get bat symbols. Then they are joined by purple and green streamers. The door to the ballroom is covered in sloppily painted hearts of all colors. Some of them wear a red-lined cheshire grin. There are no explosives, and Joker is alone. Feeling for any traps, Bruce opens the door.

Confetti canons fire tissue paper and sparkles in his face and clown horns blare in his ears. Those goddamned chattering teeth are clomping around the floor. They dissolve out of his mind when he takes in the room.

Banners, streamers, balloons, buquetes, a table full of various sharp weapons adorned with gift bows, but the worst, the worst is what Joker is sitting beneath, in a cone-shaped birthday hat, grinning to all hell with a blowout noisemaker between his teeth.

A string of letters on the wall spell out CONGRATS BATS and BABY’S FIRST KILL. Situated between those, a collage of the crime scene photos. Bruce realizes with horror — and fear — that as of midnight, today is the anniversary of Darren Wilson’s death.

Joker blows the noisemaker, then bursts out of his chair, long limbs fully stretched and animated. “Surprise, Bats!”

Bruce is frozen in place. The summer night is humid but his blood is frigid. He refuses to tremble but is unsure if he can stop it. Never in his life has he been afraid of the Joker, but right now, right here, he’s as scared as he was when his parents were the victims at his feet.

“What, you didn’t think I’d forget, did you? You wound me, Bats. How could I forget a day as special as this?” He sighs in content. “Sorry I couldn’t invite anyone else, but y’know, our little secret,” he mimes zipping his mouth closed. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

The floor opens. Wrist and ankle cuffs lock him to the chair he falls into. It raises back to floor level. “A front row seat to tonight’s festivities, a throne befitting a true King.” He giggles, then leans on a table. “Much fancier than the front row seat I had that night. Did you ever figure it out? How I knew?” Bruce can’t get his throat to work. Joker grins impossibly wider. “The happiest, perfectest accident. I got one of my safe houses on that strip. What a fortunate coincidence I happened to be shacking up at that one in between life sentences. Saw the whole thing. All of it.” He beams. “Now, don’t you wanna open your presents? It’s your birthday, they’re all for you!”

Bruce doesn’t move. Can’t move, can’t speak. Joker towers above him, the victorious prince, and Bruce, the fallen knight. The fight’s gone, cleaned out. His head hangs, and he doesn’t have the energy to lift it.

First Joker’s mocking. “Bats...”

Then he’s petulant. His hands go to his hips. “BaaAAAaatsss?”

He crouches, and pulls Bruce’s head up by his ears to look him in the eye. “Baaaaaaattsss, what’re you doing? You’re gonna ruin the atmosphere. We’re supposed to be happy. We’re gonna walk out of here equals, you and me. I don’t normally spoil presents but,” he goes and grabs one of the smaller boxes, “this one’s for your complexion.”

Bruce is numb, but manages a faint “you’re a monster.”

Confusion flashes in Joker’s eyes; he pulls back a little. “Hm, been a while since you called me that. Why did you say? ‘If you deny his humanity you’ll never beat him?’” His eyebrows crease. “You’re not giving up on me, are you?”

Joker stands, throwing his arms up and letting them drop in exasperation. “Oh, c’mon, Bats, you could have done worse. It could have been someone whose life actually mattered!”

A spark turns into a flame in Bruce’s mind. Anger sizzles awake in his chest and the fight returns full force. He glares up at his worst enemy.

“Uncuff me,” Bruce demands, “now.”

“Only if you’ll put on your birthday suit.” Joker cackles and slaps his knee. As Bruce struggles to break the bonds he continues, “you can leave the mask on, if you’re feeling modest.”

Bruce remembers the automatic trigger Joker used for the cuffs, and the flood circuits he put in the gauntlets. “Short,” he commands. There’s a burst of electrical energy, and the the cuffs on his wrists fall open. He hooks Joker in the cheek and cuts the ankle cuffs with the laser cutter on his belt, then launches into action.

“When I get through with you,” he snarls through attacks, “I’m not taking you to Arkham. You’re going far—” he blocks a kick “—far away, to a real hospital,” punch to the side, “an honest hospital,” to the kidney, “a boring hospital. I’m going to dump you there and then,” he grabs Joker by the hair to pummel him downwards, “then I’m going to forget you.”

He can’t see Joker’s eyes widen, but he knows it’s there. There’s one thing Joker consistently reacts to: the idea of Batman abandoning him. It’s a pressure point Bruce rarely targets, but right now, he’s going to assault it.

Joker elbows up and back, hard. Bruce, unprepared, takes it square to the jaw, and bites his tongue. There’s a trace of blood in his mouth.

“You wouldn’t!” Joker shouts, trying to disguise his panic with ego. “You’d miss me too much. You’ve tried not playing anymore and it never works.” He gets a lucky shot. “You always come back to me. We need each other, Bats. It’s the only way we can stand life.” He laughs off a blow. “Till death do us part, darling.”

Bruce laughs, once, amused and condescending. He spins Joker into the wall face first, and bangs his head again for fun. “I would never love you. Never. Not even because you’re you.”

“Do tell then, sweetums,” Joker manages while trying to shake him off.

“Because you’re not worth it. You don’t deserve love. And I deserve more than you.” He leans in to Joker’s ear to say soft but venomous, “and you don’t deserve me.”

He feels it more than he sees it. Joker goes stock still, his shoulders tense. The game’s over. Now Joker is properly angry. For anyone else, angering him would be a grave mistake. Tonight Bruce wants it. It’s time to finish this.

Joker braces himself on the wall, but when he pushes back, Bruce gets him in a headlock. He feels Joker move and suddenly they’re falling backwards. Joker’s feet caught purchase to the wall and he forces them both to the splintered floor. He gracelessly fights his way out of Bruce’s hold when the impact loosens it. Quick as lightning in a hurricane, Joker stabs him between two plates, narrowly missing the ribs. Bruce grunts and punches him away, then tackles him. The wound is deep, and Joker twisted on the way out, causing a larger exit wound and faster bleeding. The constriction of the under armor and suit will bind it long enough to get home. Joker thrashes like an animal caught in a trap, not trying to fight as much as to break free. Bruce has to immobilize Joker’s legs first, then pins him at the shoulders, looming over him. When Joker tries to lift his head, Bruce moves a hand to his throat. He barely notices the pain in his side when he sees Joker’s expression.

He wants to deny what he’s seeing. It’s not just anger. It’s not just resentment. Joker’s teeth are clenched and his eyebrows are pinched, and there are tears in his eyes. Tears that are now running down his cheeks, dragging mascara with them. The marble white of his skin make them impossible to deny. And his eyes, the biting green of his eyes, pupils pinpricks despite the low light, burn with heartbreak. Broken, crushed, vulnerable, and... human.

Joker’s lips pull into a manic smile. “You sure are sending mixed signals here, Bats,” he seethes.

“It’s over, Joker.”

For the first time, Joker looks like he believes that. Confident he’s too stunned to move, Bruce sits up and goes for the cuffs. Joker lifts up onto his forearms.

“Bruce,” his tone is the one reserved for when he and the Bat need a conversation. Authoritative, strong, and far too lucid. “If you honestly believe that moving me would stop me, you’re stupider than your ears make you look. You think I need to be in Gotham to run it? If you move me, you’ll regret it. Barbara Gordon, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cane, Stephanie Brown, and... oh what’s the brat’s name... Damian? And dear old Alfred Pennyworth.” His coy smile speaks of murder and promises. “They’ll all regret it too. I say the word, they’ll all be saying hi to Jason Todd.” His grin widens. “This will never. Be. Over. It’s you and me, hot stuff, to the end of the fuckin’ world.”

Bruce slams him back on the ground by his throat. “I should have let them kill you a long time ago.”

“Naaah,” Joker’s breath is airy. He’s gripping the wrists constricting around his throat. The translucent skin is turning pink. “I know you, Bats, and that’s not you.”

Joker’s face is turning pink too. Bruce can feel his throat trying to work as he laughs. That incepid laughter, that maddening laughter, that mocking, omnipresent laughter. How many times has Bruce wanted to choke it out of him. Choke it out of him the way he’s doing right now. Could do right now. With the right amount of pressure Joker’s trachea would snap under his will. How many times has he had the power to do that.

A voice inside is screaming at him to let go, or stop squeezing so tight, to go for the handcuffs and send him somewhere remote from where he’ll never return. He can see it all in his mind, the facility he had actually researched and considered. A proper hospital for the criminally violent, with therapy and Ivy League-trained doctors and regulation. From 8:00am to 9:00pm he would have a strict regimen of group and individual therapy, meetings with psychologists and APRNs who work in tandem to prescribe medication — or something else if pills are ineffective — and 24 hour monitoring. Deadbolt doors. Three pass security checks. Chains for his wrists and ankles for the first six months, less if he’s a star of good behavior. Street clothes privileges after a year, with model behavior. Talk therapy. Art therapy. Regulated meals. People who care. Competent, honest doctors who care about their patients, no matter their record. He could get better, he could heal. He could find peace.

He maintains eye contact. Joker’s grip is weakening. The veins in his eyes are thickening, his skin going redder and redder. He laughs beneath Bruce’s hands the whole time. His pupils dilate, and he mouths the words that will haunt Bruce until the end of his days.

_I love you._

Joker’s eyes gloss. The movement in his throat stops. His face relaxes, maintaining his smile. His hands and arms are limp. Bruce searches his eyes for life, any of those fractional movements that are always analyzing the Bat’s face. None. All is still. Tentatively, he relaxes his fingers, and lifts his hands as if in surrender. The arms on his fall to the sides with a soft flap that hurts his ears.

The Joker is dead.

Batman killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I’d really appreciate your thoughts on this one, it’s one of the chapters I’ve most looked forward to sharing. Every good villain needs a catalyst. How’d I do? 
> 
> Thanks again, see you next week! <3


	16. Chapter 16

He’s on his knees, Joker’s narrow hips caged between them. Even in death, the cheshire grin of the Clown Prince of Crime is terrifying. Silence booms in his ears like the war drums of old. Or perhaps that is his pulse. He’s picked up on the fact that his hands are trembling.

He leans back on his haunches, arms dropping onto his thighs. He sits there a while and stares. It’s over. It’s all over. He can’t take it back.

His surroundings regain his attention. The collage of crime scene photos watch him with harsh accusation. Darren Wilson was an accident. What is this.

_You could have done worse._

When his muscles complain of their position, he swings one leg over the corpse, sits cross-legged, and thinks. And thinks. And thinks. And remembers. He breathes deep and slow, letting the rise and fall of his chest carry him through. The floodgates are open. He takes it all at once. Every time Joker saved him. Every time Joker kept a promise, stayed true to his word, helped him solve a case, every emotion the man drew from him. Rage, frustration, disgust, hatred, animosity, his worst enemy. There was much more, and for the first time, Bruce lets himself feel. Mutual respect. Familiarity. Dependability, even if what for was antagonistic. Trust.

Yes, trust. An atypical, unhealthy system of trust. Friendship. A friendship forged in pain and violence, anger and loss. And loneliness. He never understood, but he did know. When no one else knew, when no one else ‘got it,’ Joker did. Bruce did the same in kind.

Pre-dawn will lighten the sky soon. He needs to move the body while he still has the cover of night. Tentatively, as if Joker will suddenly wake and gasp for air, he slips his hands under Joker’s knees and shoulders. Even as dead weight, Joker weighs nothing. The car is just outside. He is able to load Joker into the passenger seat without complication; years of experience autopilot him from the building to passenger side, to the wheel, to the batcave.

He steals glances at his passenger frequently, a force of habit. He looks like he’s unconscious, or sleeping, slumped against the window. He’s not. The sharp pain Bruce feels with every look is not guilt, nor regret, but it is… a sorrow, of some sort. Something has happened and it doesn’t feel good.

At the cave he takes the corpse in his arms again and lays it on the bed in the med bay. Eyes still open, lips still grinning, Joker’s limbs fall limp in odd angles, but his gaze still meets Bruce’s. Bruce maintains the one-sided eye contact for another moment, remembering, and committing to memory.

He removes the cowl and unclips the cape. It does nothing to relieve the weight pressing down on him, so he starts unlocking and unclipping. With each click he feels the air in the cave leaving. The suit is crushing him and he needs it off — he tries not to panic as he hastily removes the last of the armor. The under armor is almost torn in half from how violently he yanks them off. He focuses on his breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

When his body stops shaking, he busies himself with meticulously putting the batsuit away, giving each piece its own individual care. He mumbles a poem under his breath.

Suit away and anxiety dissipated, he returns to the med bay. He pulls up a chair. Joker does not turn to look him dead in the eye. His eyes remain fixated on the ceiling. The tips of his teeth peek out from under his blood red lips.

Bruce lets his head hang. Lets his breath turn to gasps. He covers his face as the gasps heighten. He stays there for the morning, trying to prevent his tears and shaking breaths from turning to sobs. He cries not for the murder he committed, but for the life lost. His enemy. His friend.

_It could have been someone whose life mattered._

Alfred finds him some hours later, naked save for his briefs, asleep with his head in his arms, folded on the mattress next to an inanimate murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, share a few thoughts with me? It always makes my day <3 Hope to see you next week!


	17. Chapter 17

When Bruce designed the batcave, cadavers were not on the list of unexpected expectations to plan for. He’s uncertain of what he wants to do, but he is certain about what cannot happen: the police cannot know that the Joker is dead. Jim Gordon cannot know that the Joker is dead. Gotham City cannot know that the Joker is dead. At least not yet. This soon after, the news could cause riots of both celebration and outrage. His biggest concern is copycats trying to emulate him, keep his legacy intact.

His family knowing his failure is the most horrific scenario. He will keep it from them as long as he can, if he can at all. Right now, with Alfred in a chair at the end of Joker’s bed, watching him sleep next to his lifeless enemy, that’s going to be a little difficult.

Bruce doesn’t say anything at first. He throws on sweatpants and a t-shirt he keeps tucked away in the small bathroom of the cave, washes his face, and brushes his teeth. Then he starts up the countertop computer to begin a blueprint. Alfred picks up the discarded under armor and folds it, to be taken to the laundry room in the mansion later. He waits, and gives his charge space. And Bruce knows that means he’s already worked out what happened, in greater detail than Bruce can ever predict. He’s free to take as long as he needs to talk about it, though he’s not so stupid as to think it can remain unspoken for too long.

He draws. The tools materialize in his brain as he goes. Metal, bolts, gasoline, ventilation, welder. It doesn’t take long. He saves a copy to the batcomputer so he can have it on his tablet. He should have enough metal on hand not to need to contact Lucius. If Alfred’s going to stand there until he talks, fine, but no one else knows about this. He starts building right away.

Alfred gives and takes tools. The welder, soldering iron, wrenches; perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of refusal to be ignored, perhaps a gentle reminder that he’s not going anywhere. At one point Bruce sees him cover his mouth out of the corner of his eye; he’s looking down at the drawing table. Still, he says nothing. For hours they work in silence, Alfred’s company proving essential when it comes time to line up all the pieces. When it’s finished, it looks like a tool of death. The metal is still hot from the welding, but it looks cold and lifeless. The slab drives smoothly. The easy part is done. The furnace is going to be more complicated.

Alfred offers him a towel and glass of water. He accepts both, downing half the glass in one gulp and wiping his forehead. He leans against a counter and resolutely does not meet Alfred’s eyes.

“I killed him.”

Alfred takes a moment to process, then nods, short and slow.

Bruce sighs, hard. His head sags. “It… I don’t think it was an accident.”

Alfred’s voice is soft and kind. “Are those your thoughts, or his?”

Bruce huffs an airy, helpless laugh. “I have no idea anymore.” His attention turns to the nearest object, a pen. He flicks it back and forth in small motions. “He found out about Darren Wilson. He… threw me a birthday party for having killed him.” His neck snaps up, turning his eyes to the ceiling, trying to hold in the tears. “He knows us, Alfred. He knows all of us. He won’t let me forget the potential power he has because of it. I told him—” he’s having trouble breathing “—I told him I was going to send him away. And I was, this time. One phone call and I would have had him away from Gotham forever. A real hospital. But when he threatened all of you, I knew he meant it. And it wouldn’t be like last time.”

He wipes a hand down his face, abandoning the pen. “He’s too well connected. He said he could run Gotham from anywhere and he was right. One word, and all of us would be exposed, and,” he exhales deep. “I didn’t know what else to do. And then I couldn’t stop. Or I wouldn’t stop. I don’t know.” A traitorous tear drops from his eyelash.

Cautious as a doe, Alfred walks around the table separating them and places his hands on his charge’s shoulders. He waits until Bruce looks at him to speak. “You did what you felt you had to, and none of us will fault you for that. Least of all me.” He relaxes his arms. “Perhaps it was wrong of me, but part of me wished that you’d come home and announce him dead, every time he surfaced again. He was a plague on Gotham, and a cancer to you.”

“You’re, happy, then?”

Alfred hums. “Not quite. I won’t be celebrating in the streets, but I would be lying if I said I won’t be relieved for you. I know it can’t be easy, having broken the one rule you placed so much weight on,” he spares a glance at the med bay, “but you must remember, master Bruce, that the self defense law exists for a reason.”

“There was a significant power imbalance,” Bruce grumbles, with no shortage of self hatred.

“Was there?” Alfred’s expression brings back memories of hard life lessons learned. Growing up curious and stubborn earned him plenty of that look.

Bruce maintains eye contact, but is first to break it. His mind feels ready to explode and collapse at the same time. With a deep breath and a shallow nod to himself, he pushes off the desk. An unoccupied corner catches his attention. The large divot in the rock above would make for easy and effective ventilation. He sees the construction process, and with each step, his heart hurts a little more.

Alfred follows his line of sight, then studies his face. He’s gotten quite good at knowing what Bruce is thinking. He does not want any of the others to know who is responsible for the Joker’s demise, that much has been written on his face since Alfred found him. When it comes to Bruce’s thoughts on and around the Joker, however, he is is at a total loss. There’s no dissecting that relationship.

“Right then,” he says instead, “shall we get started?”

Bruce smiles weakly.

—————

The cremator is ready in a few days. Alfred has discouraged the others from visiting the batcave. Instead he encourages them to make Bruce meet with them in the mansion, “like civilized people.” Bruce agrees with the right amount of stubborn resistance to minimize suspicions. He offers smiles to Alfred whenever he directs them away from the cave.

He doesn’t tell them much. He recounts the Darren Wilson situation very matter-of-fact, cold and clinical, as if it were another crime Batman was investigating, instead of committing. He resolutely ignores the concern on their faces. He tells of the trip to Nepal in greater detail. He leaves out the birthday party, and the events therein. Their expressions say they know he’s leaving details out. They’ll get nothing more out of him.

There comes a night, two nights after the cremator was finished, where Bruce can’t concentrate. He’s reading the notes of an open case over and over and retaining none of it. He’s visually frustrated, and eventually decides he’s seen enough. He dons the under armor and readies the batsuit. His expression and demeanor are all wrong. Before he can put on the cowl, Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder, with enough grip for him to feel it. Bruce turns to look at him.

“It’s time, sir,” he says.

“Time for what,” Bruce says.

Alfred’s unamused face makes an appearance. “Time for your shiatsu. You know bloody well what.” His expression softens. “The longer you keep him here, the longer he’ll still have a hold on you.”

Bruce looks like the scared little boy he was all those years ago, when he was still in denial of their deaths and refused to mourn. How long had it taken Alfred to get Bruce to admit it, to cry and scream and hit pillows and hate life for being unfair? He never bothered counting. He is not so naïve as not to deny that the relationship between Batman and the Joker was different from the rest. He knew, every time he hoped the police would just shoot him already, that it would impact Bruce in a way all its own. However he has to do it, he just wants him to do it, so his charge can walk away from the madman and be at peace. Whatever peace he can find with one less to worry about.

Bruce won’t meet his eyes. He contemplates the floor, then looks to the med bay. The temperature of the whole cave was lowered to delay the decaying, while Bruce could figure out what to do with him. Joker rests, smile still tight, eyes pulled shut. Bruce couldn’t look at them. The almost luminescent green of his eyes turned dull, slightly gray, and the muscles of his pupils relaxed, dilated. Dead. Just dead. Human eyes, human body, human death. Not a monster, not a dragon slain, just a man.

“Alright.”

Alfred smiles, nods to himself, and leaves his charge to face his demons. There are times when you don’t let someone face it alone, and there are times when you give them the privacy they need.

When the elevator has stopped screeching, Bruce kills the cave surveillance. He approaches the corpse, definitely Not Trembling. Carefully, like moving a wounded fawn, Bruce slips his hands under Joker’s shoulder blades and knees again. He carries him the short distance to the slab, every step feeling heavier and longer. He lays the body down feet first, arranges the limbs neatly. It looks wrong to have his hands on his chest; Bruce puts them at his sides. And he stares, again.

He feels the words in his throat, but they won’t come. He feels the urge in his heart but can’t make his tongue move.

“....................you bastard,” he whispers. “Why did it come to this.”

He takes a breath.

“I’m..... I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry.”

He fights the tears. He shouldn’t be crying. He looks up to keep them in his eyes.

He installed an automatic slider. He doesn’t use it. The slab glides in his hand, slow and gentle. He pauses when only Joker’s head remains outside. Bruce’s head falls. Fights more tears. Looks up and glowers at the face of his worst enemy, the face of evil, the face of death, the face of nightmare and terror that has plagued Gotham for seventeen fucking years. No one should be spilling tears over this deplorable creature. Least of all Batman.

Barely audible, defeated, he says,

“Goodbye.”

He slides the slab shut, locks it, and starts the incinerator before he can think about it. He hears the flames ignite, the whirl of their power. Smoke billows out the opening at the top of the rock wall. It quickly turns black as it burns through clothing, then flesh, organ, tendon and bone. Bruce covers his face with his hands. His back finds the stone, slamming hard. He feels nothing. Words unspoken burn in his mind as Joker’s corpse burns two feet away.

_Don’t leave me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Shared thoughts are always welcome and make my day. See you next week! <3


	18. Chapter 18

The fight hasn’t felt this good in ages. He has no idea who the assailant is, but he knows they’re someone big, someone huge, and he’s going to take them down. Defeated by the Batman. It’s a car chase now, and he knows he’s got them beat. He knows every street, turn, alley, pedestrian-only walkway in Gotham. No one can outrun him on foot. No one can outrun him in a vehicle. He has them.

They’re face to face now. The man is trained, but Bruce is trained harder. Every block is almost as good as every hit. It ends with the crook’s face crushed onto the hood of the batmobile while Bruce cuffs his wrists behind his back. He then shoves the criminal inside and peels off for Arkham Asylum, six police cars on his tail.

He brings the criminal up to the desk himself, and deposits him into a nurse’s care. “Make sure he’s off the streets,” Bruce says. When he turns round, the six police cars have the entrance surrounded. Six pistols are in his face, three more and three shotguns back them up from the cars.

“Nice try,” Bullock sneers behind his Glock, “but he’s not the one going to Arkham, Batman, you are.”

He’s strapped to a standing gurney, thrashing violently to break free of the thick leather straps. A doctor in a bleached white coat walks slowly two steps behind the armored guards steering him. He lists prognoses in apathy.

_Hero complex. Delusions. Depression. Severe paranoia. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Avoidant Personality Disorder._

Bruce is shouting, trying to convince them there’s been a mistake. The doctor nods, like he expects it; the guards do nothing. He hears his own voice yelling _please, help me._

He’s locked in a cell made of cement and metal. Lights out was called fifteen minutes ago. The only light in the room comes from the small, rectangular window on the steel door. The lump of wire that passes for a bed is against the far wall. He sits on the ground to its left, arms wrapped around his knees as he tries to think his way out. But there is no thinking his way out; the hospital staff are not permitted to open the door. He’s not a patient, he’s a prisoner. And he’s going to die in here.

He hears humming approaching from behind the wall. The voice is familiar, but takes a moment to place. He is unsure what to think of it being a comfort.

Joker sits down next to him, cross-legged. “How is my old ha-ha-hacienda treating you, Bats?” he asks, “everything you hoped it would be and more?”

“I don’t belong here,” Bruce says, broken.

“Sure ya do,” Joker says with glee, “you’re one of us now.”

“I’m nothing like you.” His voice holds none of the bravado nor confidence it once did.

“You were nothing like us. Well, you were always like me. Now you’re even more like me.” Joker hooks his arm around Bruce’s neck. His other hand wipes the air in front of them. “Best friends forever, now we don’t have any differences to put aside. We’re gonna be great, you and me. We’ll finally give this city the dynamic duo it deserves.”

“I don’t want to be like you,” Bruce says in desperation.

“Oh, darling,” Joker shuffles closer until they’re touching, “it’s not so bad. You’ll see. A life without rules is the only way to live. I’ll show you the ropes. We’ll have to work on your method, though. You can’t call it an accident forever.”

“It was an accident,” Bruce insists, missing Joker’s double meaning.

Joker laughs. “Darling, don’t sell yourself short, that was brilliant. Quick and efficient. Instant kill. He never knew what hit him. Gorgeous stuff, hot stuff. But not nearly as satisfying as what comes next. There’s more fun to be had.”

Bruce ducks his head under his arms. “This isn’t happening to me.”

Joker pouts, then rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder. “You like to deny things. You spend so long trying to control everything, and when it doesn’t work the way you wanted it to, you deny it.” He giggles, his amusement back. “You’re so good at it, too. Pretending things are fine. Pretending your butler doesn’t mind not having a social life. Pretending Barbara never got shot by yours truly. Pretending there was nothing you could have done about Jason. Doesn’t matter that he’s alive again. And now,” he nuzzles Bruce’s neck, lips ghosting over fevered skin, “now you’re pretending you didn’t like it. But you did, didn’t you?”

Bruce’s blood runs cold.

Joker sounds like the smoothest predator, sultry and lethal. “Faster than thought. Your body knew what it wanted to do before your brain did. You had your target before he even struck.”

Bruce’s head snaps up and bangs against the cement behind him. He’s breathing heavy, trying to hold back the tears again. But he can’t vocalize, can’t tell Joker to stop.

“That crunch was so satisfying, wasn’t it? Better than just a broken nose. Those were the deeper bones, the real bones, not the cartilage. I bet you could name every bone that ended up in his brain. ‘Cause you knew. You knew exactly what to do, and how to do it. And it was easy. And then it was over. Your job was finished. Just like,” he snaps, “that.”

Bruce shakes his head, still against the wall. “This isn’t who Batman was supposed to be.” The tears escape.

“Oh, honey,” Joker pulls Bruce’s head down, into his shoulder. Damn it all, Bruce lets him. He lets himself be drawn closer, lets Joker put his arms around him, lets Joker nuzzle his hair, lets himself weep meekly into Joker’s neck. Joker hums something Bruce doesn’t recognize. He can feel the vibrations in the other man’s throat, hear his heart beating in his chest, like a human. “It’s not so bad, you’ll see. It was always gonna happen like this. You just let Uncle J take it from here. It’ll be alright. It’ll be hilarious.”

“You’re dead. This is just a dream. ” Bruce whispers.

“Mhmm. You’ll be amazed how real it all is when you wake up. And when you do,” he can hear the twisted, cheshire grin in his enemy’ s voice, “I’ll be right there with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments make my world go round. See you next week!


	19. Chapter 19

Bruce isn’t right in the days, and weeks, after the cremation. He’d lose his family if they knew he kept the ashes. The urn is hidden in a space Alfred already respects as off limits to him. There’s not much in it; memories of his parents he wants to keep between the three of them. Now they’re joined by a toxic, damnable secret.

But he can’t. He can’t.

He’s more brutal when any of the rogues resurface. Two enemy mafia families put aside their differences — temporarily — to try and take him down. He permanently paralyzed three members between the two of them, and they wanted revenge. They get a hospital bill and iron bars. It takes Johnathan Crane, escaped again, begging him to have mercy to realize what he’d been doing. A year ago he’d have been horrified by what he’s become. Now, now he’s tired. Whatever sanctity he once held for life, he’s not sure if he can still feel it.

His family tread cautiously around him. Barbara has to get between him and a crook a few times. He walks away, but feels neither better nor worse towards another dangerous person off the streets. Damian is the one to confront him outright.

“What happened to that ‘moral code’ you insisted on?”

He tells his son to mind his tongue, and otherwise ignores the comment.

The sorrow in Alfred’s eyes sobers him, sometimes. Sometimes it angers him. Doesn’t he understand? The rule means nothing anymore. There’s no undoing a promise broken. He promised never to be like them, to protect Gotham from people like the man that killed his parents. But he broke that promise long before Darren Wilson. The Batman uses the same violence and fear mongering as them. He puts people in hospitals, like them. His ends justify his means, like them.

Joker called him out on it. He never listened. He’s listening now, and it’s all... kinda funny, actually. How long he deluded himself because he was scared of being like them. Now he knows that he never thought about it because if he did, he’d see that he’d always been just a different version of them. A version who thinks the way he uses violence is justified because he’s doing it for the good of the people.

In death, Joker occupies more of Bruce’s thoughts than he did while alive. There are questions unanswered, words unspoken, thoughts unshared. Bruce truly thought that someday he’d ask the right questions and finally learn what made Joker the way that he was. That’s all over now, though. He’ll never learn anything more, because there’s nothing more to learn. Except that there is, and it’s driving him up a wall. He hated this man, knew more about him than anyone else, and barely knew anything. What’s more, while he’d never entertained the thought of them having a relationship, dare he say a connection, he’s entertaining it now, when Joker is no longer able to tell him every detail he’d obsessively filed away. Whatever Joker saw, he wants to listen, now. Too little too late has never been a position he favors.

When he isn’t patrolling the streets for his next punching bag he’s in the batcave, running analyses of every sample of Joker toxin he has. He sweeps the gadgets and paraphernalia he hoarded over the years. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but it might have answers to something. Anything.

Months pass. The atmosphere in Gotham is changing. When Joker’s out, it doesn’t take him long to level a building again. Five months since he last escaped, there’s no sign. The people are anxious but hopeful. The paranoid say he’s going to level the whole city, like he had promised, and that the city needs to be evacuated. The longer it takes, the worse the paranoia. The police are maintaining it, but there is a noticeable stress as people walk the streets.

Then there come those that believe he’s dead. These ones paint their faces and dye their hair to resemble him, and vow to keep his legacy alive. At first it’s just rallies of idiot young anarchists, but it escalates to cars flipped, property damaged, stores looted, then to bonfires and arson. Wherever they go they spray paint a crude Joker grin. The police have slightly more difficulty containing them; their size is unknown and they’re slippery little bastards.

It’s only a matter of time before the family wonders where the clown is, too.

After exhausting every sample, he has not found much that he hadn’t found already. It has told him nothing, save for how intelligent Joker was under his clown persona. He would have made a good chemist. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was a runner; with his wiry limbs and strong legs he could have been a champion. Or a dancer. He could have been anything. Anyone can be anything if they have the will. The means are a different story, but on a level playing field anyone can be anything. It’s all about what they want.

Every so-called expert on criminal behavior — and every so-called expert on the Joker, whether or not they’d ever met him — agrees that he wanted chaos. All that he’d seen, all Joker had said, and done, and felt, wanting chaos isn’t right in Bruce’s mind. He was chaos. He was part of the universal moral dichotomy of good and evil, and he played his part to the fullest extent, giving it his all. He was his own god, called his own shots, made his own rules, and knew who he was. Of that, Bruce almost envies. To be so confident about one’s place in the world is a rare privilege. And where Joker was chaos, Batman was order. With his self-proclaimed purpose his only guide in life, the Batman became Joker’s whole world. Theirs was the fight everlasting, the natural order, the balance enacted.

If that’s true, the balance is now out of alignment. Bruce wonders if that’s what he’s feeling.

The sun rises, dancing light into his bedroom through the trees. He was supposed to have fallen asleep an hour ago, but his mind won’t stop racing. Won’t stop running circles around itself, trying to understand without any new information. He’s done more with less, his mind argues. He’s always seen what no one else can. And he has, every time, whenever Joker reappears. But the one thing he has never been able to answer is why. Why, and how. How can one person hate so much, bring themselves to do the things he did.

He freezes. There’s an idea pinging, loud, but not forming. Just stay still and blink really hard… Yes. There’s an idea.

As a general rule, Bruce does not like to replicate any weapons of his enemies unless truly necessary. One would think Joker toxin would be at the bottom of that list, given that its titular manufacturer is roasted to bits and hidden away like a fourteen year old’s Playboy. But there is one thing he didn’t try. One thing that might reveal all the answers. He makes a few vials of variant strands, two vials of the original formula, and five vials of the most recent variant. The most potent Joker ever made, liquid as well as aerosol. He’ll try them all if he has to. But he will have answers, even if it kills him.

While he waits for that to cook, it’s high time he went back to his birthday party. Joker went to a lot of trouble setting all of that up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I posted this super early because I’m having a daycation and didn’t want to forget. Coming back to a comment or two would be a great end to the day (and my free time for the week). Thanks again for reading and I hope to see you next week! <3
> 
> —Oh, that reminds me, if you’ve read my oneshot “For The Sake Of Laughter,” you may have a sequel in your future after today. If you haven’t read it, pop on over! It’s quite a ride.


	20. Chapter 20

The problem with ignoring your family is that they know where you live. After a solid week of unanswered calls, texts, emails, and one fax (they always make fun of him for the fax machine), Tim decides it’s time to call in the cavalry and stage another intervention. This time they let Damian join, as long as he thinks before he speaks. Preferably he won’t speak because he won’t think.

Tim and Damian take the elevator, Dick and Barbara come on their bikes. They all find him together leaning back in his chair, staring at the computer. Normally organized and pristine, the cave is a mess of scattered paper evidence, chemistry equipment, and various other tools. The only piece of organized detritus are two racks of vials, one of which is empty, the other mostly full. Surveillance footage they don’t recognize is playing on six screens.

His back is to them. He is barefoot, wearing pants but no shirt. His left arm is tensing and flexing with the movement of his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers. He’s pale, sickly pale, and quiet. They approach with caution.

“Bruce?” Tim asks. “You haven’t answered me in a while. Everything okay?”

No response. Barbara tries, “We know you want to be alone, but there’s only so long we can do that. As your partners, eventually we all have to talk to each other.”

Damian breaks away to inspect the clutter. He doesn’t bother with the case files on the ground; anything on paper is most likely from long before his time and therefore a waste of energy. The chemistry sets and samples most catch his attention. The full samples only have numbers. 1A, 2A, 3A, 4A, 5A, 1B, 2B, 1C, 1D, 1E, 1F. The others are more descriptive. Joker toxin, various strands. Last he saw, these were all full.

“Father,” he calls, “what happened with the Joker toxin?”

Bruce heaves a heavy sigh. It almost sounds pleasurable, if it weren’t so distressed. “I had to understand.”

“Understand what?” Barbara asks, gently, but can’t keep her concern out of her voice.

Bruce languidly pulls himself close enough to the computer to pull up a new video feed, closing all of the others. Then he kicks himself away again, crosses his arms, and studies. It reveals his confrontation with Darren Wilson. The angle couldn’t have been more perfect as he lands his fatal blow. Wilson drops dead. Batman stops and stares. When the Bat leaves the scene, the footage auto replays.

“Joker gave me that,” he explains. “Pure coincidence. Right outside one of his safe houses. Fixed the back entrance with a security camera. That’s the only copy. Camera’s not there anymore.” He pauses. “It was a gift.”

The kids all look at each other. “Watching it over and over isn’t going to do anything,” Tim says, “except maybe drive yourself mad. It was an accident, Bruce. Accidents happen. All of us have had them.”

“Batman doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Yes, he does,” Alfred materializes from behind. “None so foolish and dangerous as shutting out his family when he needs them most.” The kids all smile at him — except Damian, who merely nods his approval.

“You don’t understand,” Bruce rises from his chair, pacing, scratching at his scalp and hiding his face. “You don’t know.”

“Then explain it to us,” Dick asks.

“He’s dead!” Bruce yells. They all startle, unused to his raised voice. “He’s dead. He died. Six months ago. I…” Pause. Exhale. “I found the body. There’s no mistake, no trick.”

The kids are all frozen. Alfred’s eyes are wet.

He raises his arms and grips the sides of his head, opening his lungs, stretching his abdominals, his scars, his sanity. “I’ve tried for so long to understand him. His motivations, his origins, I don’t know. I have to know. There’s no other way, now. This is the only way.”

“What are you—” Damian starts, but Dick holds him back and approaches with care. Something is very, very wrong. He’s never seen Bruce this close to hysterics.

“Whatever you need to do, let us help you,” he says. “I get why you didn’t want to tell us that, I do. But you’re scaring us. We can help you, whatever you need us to do, just tell us so we can. We’re a family, that’s what families do.” The others nod, knowing Bruce can’t see them.

Bruce looks at the ceiling, at his bats, chittering contentedly above. What their lives must be like. His eyes are red from insomnia and suppressed tears. “If he died and I still didn’t know, then I can never avenge them. Everyone he killed, everyone whose lives he destroyed. I can never tell them why it happened. Why any of it happened. To them, to others, to us. So I had to.”

It is then that Dick notices the track marks on Bruce’s left arm. Small pinpricks, strategically placed over veins. He looks at the vials on the counter in horror, then back at his mentor.

“What did you do,” he asks.

Bruce throws his head up again and resumes pacing, rubbing the forearm in question. “I’ve got the antidote to every single one of them in my system. Every time I made a cure he got around it by moving one carbon molecule to the left or one hydrogen to the right. Impossible to predict how he’d change it so an antidote could only happen after the fact. After he used it on people and people died. In large enough doses, though, it could still affect me.”

His mannerisms are becoming more anxious; scratching, pulling, rubbing, wherever he can reach. “I had to make a bit more. I got the fear response and the laughter, a little, but not his mind. It never tells me anything about his goddamned mind.” He laughs once in defeat. “Seventeen years beating him to a pulp and I could never figure out how his brain worked.”

“…Does it matter?” Tim cuts in, “I mean yes, obviously it matters, but does it? Knowing why and being able to tell other people why, does it change anything?”

“I think they’d take being told he’s dead over being told why he was a murderer,” Damian grumbles. They all shoot him a look but he doesn’t see it.

“It matters to me,” Bruce snaps, “it was my life. None of you knew him like I knew him. I knew him better than anyone but I didn't know him at all. I can tell you why the acid didn’t kill him, I can tell you why he used to wear a flower on his coat, I can tell you he wasn’t born ambidextrous and that he’s only a bad shot when he feels like it, I can tell you every lie he’s ever told and every time he told the truth, but I can’t tell you why.” He stops pacing. “Or at least, I couldn’t.”

The temperature in the cave just fell.

“You… got your answers, then?” Barbara asks, “why he was, the way he was? For real?”

Bruce’s back is to her. He interlocks his fingers and puts them on the crown of his head, opening his lungs again. He rocks on his heels. Dick’s hands are inching towards his Eskrimas.

“It was so obvious,” Bruce laments, amused at his own arrogance, “I just didn’t want to see it. Or think about it. But it was right there in front of me the whole time.” He shrugs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. You know me, always getting worked up about something.” He stalks over to the cage to get ready for the night. “I learned all I could with what was left, now we can all rest easy that he’s gone. Right?”

“…Right…” Tim’s hand is on his bo-staff too.

“You sure you’re good to go out tonight?” Dick asks. “You still look a little, uh, pale.”

Bruce starts with the torso of the under armor, then, without shame, drops his pants to put on the other half. Tim spares a glance at Barbara, who is unamused; unlike Jason, who snorted.

“Mm, side effects, no doubt. Nothing I didn’t anticipate.” Buckles and locks snap into place. He grabs an air-powered syringe from one of the tables, full of a pale blue liquid. “If this doesn’t wear off by the time it should, here’s the antidote.” He gives it a little shake before tucking it into his belt.

“Shouldn’t you do that _now?”_ Jason is impatient enough to speak. Barbara hits his shoulder with the back of her hand.

Bruce holds the cowl in both hands, and looks at his second son. For a moment he is completely sober. It’s enough. “You’re right. Jesus, you’re right.” He fishes out the syringe and shoots it into his neck. They can see the blue liquid under his near-translucent skin for a second when it enters. He tilts his head upwards and takes a breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, focusing on something above, “I’m sorry. It was… affecting me more than I thought it was. You feel completely sane, but you’re not. Not even a little.” He dons the mask, and is himself again. He makes for the car, Damian close behind. The kids all head for their vehicles.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dick asks.

“I’m fine,” Bruce says with his usual confidence. He peels out with a heavier foot than usual. Dick, Tim, and Barbara mount their bikes, and realize Jason is not with them.

“You coming?” Barbara asks.

Jason shakes his head, and waves them on. With a shrug, the others leave.

Jason returns to the work area, skimming over the files on the ground. He recognizes a few, ultimately deciding they’re irrelevant. He inspects the work spaces closer: the vials, the syringes, the sloppily-cleaned spills, the notes. The notes. They’re scattered throughout the surfaces but mostly together. He is able to arrange them in order. He reads at breakneck speed; they point him towards the cooler.

He opens the cooler, and curses the entire Wayne bloodline.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have a moment to share your thoughts they’re always welcome. I’m really excited to share the next chapter with you, so I hope you’ll join me again next week. <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a shoutout to NeoMechanist, who shared some wonderful thoughts with me about this chapter. They said some brilliant stuff that really got me thinking, and actually inspired me to add a feature towards the end of this chapter. Thank you NeoMechanist for seeing potential somewhere I didn't, and for helping me make this story better.

He can feel Damian’s suspicion scanning him from head to toe as they canvas. He senses a bit of mistrust after they take down a hold for a gang of drug smugglers. Honestly, he half expected Damian to embrace the violence the toxin brought out in him. It’s fascinating, how people think they want something until they have it.

He can feel Gordon inspecting him too. Maybe he has changed. Maybe he’s been enlightened. Maybe he’s gone insane. Maybe both. Maybe something else entirely.

Freeze targets the museum. A rare and precious diamond on display there is this month’s essential piece in unlocking the cure for Nora’s condition. He and Damian clear the room smoothly, and then he takes Freeze by whatever hold he can and smashes him up against the glass of Nora’s containment unit until the glass of his helmet, and the glass of her tube, crack. When Freeze sees the first crack he begs Batman to stop.

“Father!” Damian calls.

Victor is on his knees. Bruce pulls his head backwards to look at his face.

“How _do_ you breathe in that fishbowl?” Bruce asks, before shattering the glass with his elbow. Red and blue light flicker through the windows at the top of the wall. He blinks through the haze.

“Robin,” he instructs, voice clear again, “help Jim get the rest of them cuffed and loaded in. I’ll handle Freeze.”

Damian squints at him, but obeys. He pulls Freeze by the crook of his elbow.

“Something’s happened to you,” Freeze breathes, winded, “you’ve changed.”

“And you’ve stayed the same,” Bruce retorts, “which is why I’ll always come, and I’ll always win.” He regards his prisoner. “You know, if you had done things by the book, with your intellect, you might have had a cure by now. Instead you delay yourself by going to prison. If you die before you find a cure, who will wake her up?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Freeze snaps. “I do what I must.”

Robin and the police are guiding any still-conscious associates into the back of a police truck. Freeze’s hands have to be bound with shackles large enough to accommodate his life suit. Once seated, he looks Batman over.

“You’re unwell,” he comments. “You near killed all of these men. Perhaps I’ll see your demise yet.”

The doors slam shut, ending their banter. Robin is looking up at him, arms crossed. Bruce regards him. “Something wrong?”

“You tell me,” Damian says.

They stare for a while, a battle of wills. Robin is the first to break it, and head in the direction of the city. Bruce follows, a small smile of victory pulling at his features.

—————

When they return to the cave, Jason is there, dressed as the Red Hood. The helmet is on the table, but the guns are holstered at his sides. Bruce swallows a pill that, for all intents and purposes, is for headache relief.

“What are you still doing here?” Damian grunts when they get out of the car.

“Came back to talk to Bruce,” Jason says. He’s angry about something, but Bruce can’t place it yet. “The others are on their way. This is adult talk this time, kid, why don’t you go upstairs.”

“You dare talk to me like—”

“No, he’s right,” Bruce says, “Alfred’s probably got dinner ready by now.”

“I’m _not_ a child, whatever he has to say, we can all hear it.”

“You sure are arguing like a child,” Jason says. “Get. Maybe we’ll fill you in later.”

With a definitely mature sound of frustration, Damian leaves. Tim, Dick, and Barbara catch up within a few minutes. Dick must have remained in Gotham to patrol tonight.

“What’s going on?” Tim asks.

Jason tosses them something without looking; Barbara catches it. It’s a vial of dark red liquid, still cold from the cooler. “‘Kay… care to elaborate?” She asks.

“Elaborate, Bruce,” Jason orders. “What’s in that?”

The air is tense, as if gun powder hangs and is waiting for the match to ignite the whole room. No one dares to move, yet.

“It’s Joker toxin,” Bruce answers.

“Yeah, we got that,” Tim says. “We already had this conversation, didn’t we?”

Dick accepts the vial from Barbara. “This doesn’t look like any strand I’ve ever seen,” he comments. Barbara is regarding Bruce carefully.

Jason continues, accusatory. “What _did_ you learn with this? Last time I saw someone inhale this shit they died. Not everyone who gets the antidote recovers. Not exactly conducive to coherent thought.”

Bruce sighs. He approaches the batcomputer to put the cowl down. Barbara, Dick, and Tim join Jason, a relatively safe distance away. Leaning against the console, legs and arms crossed, he explains.

“I killed him.”

Jason is the only one that doesn’t react. Bruce can see the shock and disbelief on the others’ faces, but Jason only stares him down, narrowed eyes ordering him to talk until it’s finished.

“Six months ago. The anniversary of the day I killed Darren Wilson, he threw me a little party. He gave me the security footage I showed you as a gift. He talked, and talked. Never stops talking. We fought, he kept fucking talking. Then we were on the ground, and…” his hands move to white-knuckle the console, “…I just needed him to stop talking. Then he stopped breathing, too.”

He shakes his lengthening hair out of his eyes, watching the bats above them. “I killed him, and when I did, I was no closer to understanding him than I was seventeen years ago. There were no more questions I could ask him, no more patterns to identify. The only thing I had left was what he left behind: toxins and TNT. And the memories. I remember everything. Every hit, every victim, every brawl.”

He turns around, pulling up a visual of the toxin’s anatomical skeleton. “So I did some thinking. And it was a desperate move, but desperate times. It was eating away at me so much that I thought I really would go mad. Wilson was one thing, but Joker? That was a rabbit hole I never wanted to fall down, but here we are. The only way I could make sense of it was to make sense of him. So, yes, I took the most recent formula he’d concocted and willingly exposed myself to it. It was easy since this time it was a fluid. There were some modifications needed along the way, but it worked. I saw… everything. The way he saw it, but through my own eyes.”

Tim’s hand inches towards his bo-staff again; Barbara moves one foot behind. Dick and Jason are still.

“I finally understand. We were wrong, we were all so wrong. Looking in the wrong place, for the wrong thing. He didn’t do it out of anger, wasn’t plagued by mental illness.” He frowns to himself. “If I explain it to you, will you really understand? _Can_ you understand?”

“We’ll give it a shot,” Dick answers honestly, “If you give making sense a shot.”

Bruce nods once, and turns on his heels. Finally allowed to see his face, they can all see that Bruce is not fine. Bruce is very, very not fine. Deathly pale, bruises under his eyes, bloodshot scleras, dilated pupils, beads of sweat dripping. “Love. It was love.”

Barbara’s hand moves to her mouth. Dick and Tim are now both fingering their staffs. “Jesus Christ,” Dick whispers.

“Oh fuck off,” Jason finally speaks. “You got yourself high off of Smilex like those dumbass kids a few years ago and suddenly you think he was acting out of love? _Love?_ The Joker?”

Bruce shrugs, putting his weight on the console again. “Remember when he cut his face off? The dinner table in the caves?”

“Yeah,” Jason deadpans, “he was gonna kill us because you liked him better than us, or we’re holding you back or whatever bullshit.”

“Well,” Bruce’s face tightens, “there was a little more to it than that.” He turns around once more and opens the Joker’s file, all of it spreading across the multiple screens, and still details are hidden. “Y’see, there’s a lot here. A lotta history. A good portion of it happened before I found any of you. Or before you were old enough, Barbara. Not Batgirl yet. While all of you were down there waiting for the tea party to start, we were taking a trip down memory lane. Our first fight at Ace Chemicals, where I pushed him over the rail and caused the accident that disfigured him; our first fight on the bridge, except the people were dead already so I was kinda angry about that. But I digress.”

He spins on his heel once more. “The whole thing was a love letter. A retelling of our history together, all the times he professed his love for me, all the times I saw it but never wanted to. So it’s as I said, we were always looking in the wrong place. We were looking for the catalyst that caused his insanity, or made him so angry, but it wasn’t insanity, wasn’t anger. It was love. Every death, every fight, was to have my attention, dance the way only we dance, the balance aligned. That’s how he saw us, yin and yang or whatever. Two people bound to two very specific roles, and it could only be us. And somewhere along the way, he fell in love. Maybe I did too.” His shoulders slump a little as he frowns at the floor. “Maybe. Maybe it could have been different.”

“…Okay,” Dick is completely at a loss. “I think… none of us have gotten much sleep. I think that you have been under a lot of stress, and haven’t had time to do whatever it is you do to unwind. Maybe we should just… call it a night, digest what we’ve learned, reconvene later.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks with a beckoning tone. “You haven’t asked the question you want to ask, yet.”

“It’s Joker’s blood,” Jason announces. “He used Joker’s blood to modify the formula, as a stabilizer. There were two bags of Joker’s blood in the cooler. One of them’s half empty. More than half.”

“Are you shitting me?” Tim’s close to breaking. “How is _that_ a stabilizer?”

“He has a natural immunity to his own bullshit,” Jason answers, crossing his arms. “You used his DNA to, what, keep you immune to any psychological damage? As if it’s even that simple?”

“What is going _on_ , Bruce?” Barbara pleads. “Let us help you, before you do something you’ll really regret.”

He stares at her incredulously. “I’ve already done that, Barbara. I’ve killed two people. And let’s face it,” he gives them his back, lets his head fall in defeat, “now that I’ve started I won’t be able to stop.”

“Yes you will,” she says, taking a readying stance, fingers dipping in to her belt, “you’ve overcome his influence so many times. Seventeen years, like you said, and you always came out on top.”

Dick has his Eskrimas ready; Tim has his bo-staff; they all inch towards their teacher.

Dick continues, “he took advantage of a vulnerable time. That’s all he did, that’s what he always does. He exploited a weakness and got in your head and if you don’t fight that, there are bigger consequences. We can _help_ you but only if you let us you stubborn ass.”

Jason snorts at that. He’s the only one that hasn’t moved.

“He’s right,” Bruce says. “Always right.”

The kids feel a small wave of relief. “I know I am,” Dick says, “let’s call it a night, yeah?”

In a move too quick to process, Bruce spins around, three perfectly aimed batarangs hitting Dick, Barbara, and Tim in major arteries. Sharpened to a lethal point, something Bruce has never done. Jason pulls his guns but another batarang takes out one of his knees, then one of his ribs. He raises one again but Bruce is too fast, grabbing it in time to cause him to shoot his own ankle. His Achilles tendon is torn clean through.

Bruce turns his attention to his children, now attacking him in a group formation despite their injuries. But to prevent further blood loss, they have to leave the batarangs where they are, making their wounds easier targets. He breaks one of Tim’s legs with a single, powerful kick, and tears the batarang out of his neck. He keeps the weapon clutched between his fingers as he blocks and counters Barbara’s assault, but does not use it. He has to deflect between her and Dick until he can grab the batarang protruding from her femoral artery and drive it home harder. With her cry of pain, he digs and twists until she falls. He sends Dick flying backwards with a kick, buries the batarang the rest of the way into her leg with a merciless stomp. The batarang from Tim’s neck now buries itself in his left eye. He wails and clutches it, but dares not pull it out. A spine-chilling _crack_  remains suspended in the air when Bruce breaks Barbara’s ribs with his boot. Blood gurgles out her mouth and gushes from her leg as she turns pale with exsanguination.

A smaller throwing knife is tossed — almost absentmindedly, as Bruce does not even look — at Jason and pierces his shoulder; he drops his gun, but recovers. As he raises it, another throwing knife buries itself in the muzzle, just as he pulls the trigger. The gun explodes, taking half of his hand with it. On a sprained ankle and a broken rib, Dick leaps back into action, unsure of any plan except get his mentor to _stop_. Even with his disadvantage, he holds his ground longer than his peers. Bruce trained him well, and trained him the longest.

Jason crawls to the gun Bruce discarded, ignoring the pain in his ankle and hand. A bloodied boot crushes his wrist before he can reach it. He looks up at the head mere inches from his: Dick, drooling blood and saliva, eyes lidded and glossy, focused entirely on breathing. Hair fisted in Bruce’s glove, the rest of his body trails behind where he is held up. Blood spills from multiple deep wounds. He’s dying. That’s all Jason can think.

“He tried to kill you once and you came back.” Bruce giggles. “Batman doesn’t make mistakes.” Dropping Dick, he grips the front of Jason’s shirt and throws him into the nearest table, kicks him in the chest again to wind him. Three batarangs are held up to the low light, grasped between Bruce’s fingers like brass knuckles. Jason refuses to give Bruce, or Joker, or whoever this is, any satisfaction.

“The Justice League will stop you,” he seethes, “you prepared them for this.”

“Mm, good times ahead. Just trimming the fat first.”

They don’t punch or kick so much as wrestle. Jason is used to pain, with the vengeful adrenaline coursing through his veins he hardly feels his injuries. The fight is dirty. Not clean and precise, just a desperate need to survive. It confuses Bruce enough for him to land a few essential hits. He aims for the head, vulnerable without the cowl, as often as he can. All he needs is a second or two of disorientation to tip the scales.

Bruce starts laughing, the most disturbing sound he’s ever made. “He was right,” Bruce says, “you all make me weak.” Ducking down, he brings his fist around to land a bone-breaking blow to Jason’s ribs. He drops to a knee.

“I told you you wouldn’t understand. You _can’t_ understand, no one can. No one else was there.”

He holds the triple batarangs to the light again, but Jason knocks them out of his grip with his injured foot.Stumbling to his feet, Jason grabs his helmet off the counter and bashes it over Bruce’s head.He only laughs in response.Jason dons the helmet and jumps him again.

Bruce continues his monologue as he wrestles his second son.“He was right,” Bruce says, “you all make me weak. _He_ made me feel alive.You were all a burden.”

Jason’s fist cracks his cheekbone.“You talk as much as he does,” he growls.His bad ankle prevents a double shot.

“Ha!”Bruce retaliates, “I know how to say it, now.”

A kick that sends him skidding puts a batarang right under Jason’s good hand.He kicks up, aiming for the ribs.Bruce stumbles, and Jason brings him down on the pointed tip of his own weapon.The blade punctures Bruce’s right eye and sinks to the retina.Jason yanks it out with a cry and impales the other eye.Bruce, in a moment of total sobriety, sounds like himself as he yells in pain.Jason hasn’t noticed the chunks of vitreous spattered on his coat.Blood and fluid pour out of Bruce’s skull, and all Jason can do is stare, mouth agape, as Bruce pulls the blade out of his eye, taking some of the organ with it. 

He can’t continue the fight, not as Bruce pulls himself to his feet and stumbles with purpose towards the med bay.He uses a table to support his weight as he stands, keeping pressure off his injured foot, and follows.Numbness carries him forward.Can’t let Bruce get too far.He’s too dangerous.

Bruce isn’t going to the med bay.There’s a fixture in the wall to its right.He pushes a button, but nothing happens.Until he opens the door and slides out the slab.When the _fuck_ did he install a cremator in the Batcave?

There are tools on the slab, glowing red and angry from the heat.Bruce picks one up and — no, no he’s not going to, there’s no way he’d — he cauterizes the wounds.With a cry of agony that turns to a chorus of laughter, Bruce sears closed the cavities of his eyes.Dropping the tool, he wipes the blood from his face and licks his hand clean.

“Nice move,” he commends.

Jason tries to ram him like a quarterback, but his weight is misplaced, and Bruce is able to throw him without losing his own footing.“As I was saying before you so _rudely_ stabbed me in the face, It was love.His love for me, and my love for him, it was the balance.I never wanted to admit it but now I see.He gave me my mission, and now he’s gone.”

More batarangs emerge as he looms over Jason’s trembling form.Slow and deep, Bruce pushes the blades into the base of Jason’s neck.  Bruce listens and pictures as he bleeds out.When Jason’s head rolls and his eyes close, Bruce keeps a finger on his pulse point until it stutters and fades.He pulls the blades out and stands.

He takes a moment to orient himself, mapping the room, the fight, and the bodies.He steps over limbs and detritus to the computer console.Batman is prepared for any and every eventuality. 

“Computer,” he commands, “initiate Bat Sonar protocol.”

The computer confirms, and he hears the floor hiss open.He feels his way around, and sits in the chair.He wraps a scarf around his eyes, blood red and absorbent, a memento from long, long ago.A different life, a different game, the same denial.No longer.

“Activate.” 

A needle pierces the back of his head, through the flesh and bone, the center of the occipital lobe.  A microchip embeds in the brain matter.  Powered by the natural electricity of the organ, it transmits a signal provided by the thousands of censors on the lenses of the cowl currently fastening over his head.  When the signal connects, Bruce sees the world as he has always seen it: through the eyes of the Bat.  Shapes and lines, weapons, body heat, fear.  Only the essentials.  He stands, ready to see the world under a new lens.

He heaves a heavy, relieved sigh, and admires his work.A shooting horror chills his spine when he takes in their dead faces, the amount of fear in which they died, the blood.Like something out of the nightmares he had in the wake of Jason’s murder.The closest he could ever come to a family.The children he swore to protect, all dead at his hand, this time.

Well, all but one.He heads for the elevator.

“Damian?Damian,” he walks the halls of the mansion, making his way towards his youngest’s bedroom, first.With every step his confidence in his new paths grows again.Instinct turns his attention backwards.He is greeted with the edge of a sword.

“There’s blood on your hands and no one’s responding,” Damian says.He’s still in his Robin costume.“Who are you and what have you done to my father.”

He tilts his head and smiles.“It’s me, promise.You and I are gonna take Gotham by storm.New code, new rules, we’ll do what’s truly necessary this time, Batman and his only true Robin.”

For a fraction of a second Damian considers it.Then he attacks.Bruce has no weapons but he’s still in the batsuit.He blocks and dodges but does not retaliate.Instead he catches the blade between the spikes of his gauntlets and uses their leverage to break it in half.Damian recovers fast.

“I don’t want to fight you, son,” Bruce says, smiling far too wide, “I want to enlighten you.”

He throws a smoke pellet to the ground.It bursts open and releases a green vapor: Joker venom. 

“I made it just for you,” he beams, “so you can keep your brilliant little brain.You’ll be fast, and strong, and —” Damian tears his Robin suit to shreds.Bruce frowns.“What’d you do that for,” he grumbles.When Damian laughs, a bloodthirsty, cruel laugh, Bruce’s delight returns.“Good boy.We can fix your costume, make it better, heh, _suited,_ to our new lives.”

Alfred rounds the corner, a 12 gauge aimed and steadied.It’s been years since he held a gun, but like riding a bike...

“I’m disappointed,” Bruce says, downtrodden, “you kept a gun in here?In this house?With my rules?”

“Indeed,” Alfred stalks forward.

Bruce blocks Damian casually.He’s grinning again.“Bet you never expected this, did you?”

“Why, sir, did you think I kept the gun.”Alfred pumps the fore-end.

“Well done,” Bruce approaches, keeping directly in the line of fire, “unfortunately I cut all communication with the Justice League.Your S.O.S. won’t be reaching them.I’m afraid you’re stuck here with me.”His chest is three feet from the barrel now.“Can you really pull that trigger?”

Alfred adjusts his grip.His face is stern, but there are tears in his eyes.“I raised you as my own.I thought of you as my own.I love you as my own, you are my family, Bruce.I prayed it would never come to this.But I will not watch you destroy yourself.”

Bruce presses his breast plate against the barrel.At point blank distance the bullets will shred through the kevlar.“Then do it.”When Alfred hesitates, tears trailing down his face, Bruce grips it and moves it to under his jaw.Pressing the release, he pulls the cowl off and lets it hit the floor.“Do it.It’s the only way to stop me.There’s nothing to contain this in Gotham anymore.He never left because I was here.I owe the world two decades of chaos and misery.And it’s going to be hilarious.”

Alfred sees the stains on the fabric, the lack of protrusions from where the eyes should be.He sees, and knows Bruce is not seeing back.Bruce looks hungry, and feral, and euphoric.His Bruce is lost, succumbed to the toxic influence of the Joker’s reality.He’ll never be himself again; the Joker won.Vision blurred with tears, he squeezes the trigger.

Bruce pushes the barrel away; the glass windows next to them shatter.He quickly disarms his opponent and kicks him to the ground.The barrel is now inches from Alfred’s face.He’s grinning manically.

“Mmm... naaaaaahhh,” he laughs to himself, and breaks the weapon down.  “I promised myself I’d never use a gun.  If you break a promise to yourself, well, it turns out like this.”  He looms over his lifelong friend, looking prepared to amputate his limbs and devour the meat.  “You said I’m destroying myself.  I say I’m finally free to be what I’ve always been.”

Retrieving the cowl, he takes off down the hallway with Damian in tow, returning to the Batcave.Alone, cold from the breeze intruding from the broken windows, Alfred weeps for the family he failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited to post this chapter, I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you’ve got a minute, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Thanks so much for reading and I hope to see you next week. <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read chapter 21 before today, I ask you to read the ending again, because there's been an update. I need to give a huge shoutout to user NeoMechanist again for inspiring a new detail in this piece that I think strengthens it so much. I think the best part of fandom and fan writing is that we CAN make these changes and inspire one another.  
> Also some of the dialogue in this one I lifted directly from the source material so if it sounds... cheesy as fuck, it's not mine. Carry on.

Half a lifetime ago, Joker poisoned some school kids.Clark was going to rehabilitate them.He rounded them all up like little green crack-sheep and plopped them into a lab.They couldn’t hurt him, so he should be the one to do it. 

“’No one is beyond saving,’” Bruce parodies, leafing through Clark’s notes.And judging them.“Sheesh, the science classes in Kansas must be terrible.Who taught you how to format a report?”He tosses the folder over his shoulder, sending papers across the room.Damian slashes at them.

He gazes down through the observation window.The children are kept in individual cells to prevent them from harming one another.He does need them to behave, but he doesn’t need _all_ of them. 

“So, farm by got nowhere with their rehabilitation,” Bruce remarks.He leans on the window, feigning empathy to no one in particular.“Shame.Some of them probably could have been something someday.Ah well.”

He opens the cages.Once they’re all out, he releases his modified toxin into the air in a haze of green.In a few seconds the children spur into a melee, which turns into a gladiator pit. _“Comin’ outta my cage and I been doin’ just fine,”_ Bruce hums with amusement to the rhythm of the bloodshed.Only six remain.Damian punches out the glass and leaps to their level to assert his dominance.

“We’re going to have fun,” he says, “if you behave.You do what I say ‘cause I’m the oldest, and you do what he says ‘cause he’s the boss.My father. _Only_ my father.To you he’s Master.Get it?”

The kids are frothing at the mouth and vibrating with violent energy.Bruce provides proper uniforms, making a mockery of the once precious Robin suit.Six near-identical feral Boy Wonders hiss and crow with ravenous glee.Damian’s costume, having been ripped to shreds and then sloppily resewed, sets him apart from the rest, highlighting his rank.They all look up at Bruce, waiting for instruction.

“Goodness, I’m going to need more booster seats,” he says with pride.

 

—————

 

Clark, unlike Bruce, understands the parameters of a healthy, functional family.He promises to be home at least once a week.‘Be at home’ meaning there for breakfast, there for dinner, and overnight.It becomes routine, and with routine comes predictability.Bruce waits until Jon goes to bed — right on schedule — to disable the security.Security that Bruce designed, and installed.Everything the Justice League owns, paid for and designed by Wayne Enterprises.

Clark and Lois are turning in early.Bruce stalks.Hidden away in their bedroom, they embrace and kiss, and touch, everywhere.Bruce covers Damian’s eyes and giggles.He waits until they’ve started panting to act.He fires a strange gun at the windows; a gelatinous substance sticks to the glass.The impact sound catches the lovers’ attention.There’s a timer counting down.Clark barely has time to register the countdown before it detonates. 

The explosion releases a gray aerosol.Lois screams as it burns her eyes and eats at her eyelids.It stings Clark too, but it isn’t until the second canister that it truly affects him.As he blinks through the blood he sees a figure gliding through the fog.The gas settles slow, the silhouette looking more familiar.

“Bruce?”

Bruce steps out of the mist.With blood trickling out his eyes, Clark is unsure of what he is seeing.It looks like Bruce, it looks like his batsuit, but his face… his pallor and tight, twisted grin are not his own.

“Bruce, what’s going on, what are you _doing?”_

For a moment, Bruce looks confused, though it’s more a mockery of confusion.“That is not the question you should be asking.”

“Bruce—”

“The question you should be asking is, how are my eyes bleeding right now?How does Bruce know how to make something that can fizzle through my soft tissues like mentos in a cola?”

Clark falls to his knees.There’s kryptonite close by.Bruce kicks upwards into his jaw like he’s scoring a goal.He laughs over Lois’s scream.

“The next question you should be asking is, where’s Jon?”

Clark looks up at him, parental instincts bracing him for a fight.“What have you done—”

“Relaaaax,” Bruce waves a flippant hand, “he’s fine.  He’s with Damian.”

Right on cue, Damian kicks down the bedroom door and throws an unconscious Jon across the floor.Three Robins trail him; the others are either securing the perimeter or fighting over a dead squirrel.Do the Kents still have a dog?

Bruce inspects the child at his feet.“Hm.Well, he _was_ fine.You played a bit rough, didn’t you?”He pats Damian’s head, grinning bloody murder down at his friend.Pale, matted, covered in stitches that may or may not only be his clothing, Damian giggles from under his hood, the only features visible being his beady, manic eyes and drooling smile.

“Christ, Damian,” Clark breathes, horrified, “you did this?To your own son?!”

Bruce shrugs.“Why not?He seems to enjoy it.”

“Father,” Damian hisses with delight, “can I play with Jon now?”

“Just a moment, Damian, the grown-ups are talking.” 

Bruce looks at Lois for half a moment, before snapping his fingers and returning his attention to Clark.The Robins jump her, bringing her to her knees and confining her to a corner.  Clark tries to get up to help her but every muscle in his body is screaming.Finally, Bruce takes the lump of kryptonite out of his utility belt.Casually, as if it were any ordinary item.  Black kryptonite.  It looks wrong.Tainted.Whatever it is, though, it’s making it more potent.

“I got to thinking, old friend,” Bruce starts, “you’ve had quite a unique life, haven’t you?Picture perfect, some might say.Krypton’s gone but you never knew it.You grew up here, on earth, with a human upbringing.Two parents that loved and nurtured you into the humble little boyscout you are today.You’ve got the steady job, the perfect girlfriend, now the perfect pretty wife, the superstar son — literally.Nice house, nice cars, nice job, good dog, you still have a dog, right?All you’re missing is the white picket fence.”

“And then I thought, ‘hold on, that’s not right.’No one’s life is that perfect.And before you go thinking this is a ‘boo hoo my parents are dead and life isn’t fair’ speech, let me make one thing perfectly clear.”He gets in Clark’s face.“If my parents were alive, I’d have been as boring as you.I’m quite happy with the way things have panned out.”He stands upright again, pacing a smaller area, waving the diseased kryptonite in Clark’s face.“Where was I.Ah, yes, no one’s life is that nice.It’s unfair to _you_ that it should be so picturesque.After all,” he punches Clark in the skull, kryptonite contained in his fist, down to the floor.“How are you supposed to know what love _really_ is without a little heartbreak?”

Jon is starting to wake up.Lois is whimpering.He wakes in a panic, for the teargas got to him while he was asleep, and he wakes to a red world.He tries to blink, but it feels like something’s missing.Damian jumps him, laughing, scratching at his skin, then throws him towards Lois, who manages to catch him when the Robins part to let her.They resume taunting her, and now Jon, with snapping jaws and sharp claws.

“Why, why are you doing this, Bruce? _Why?”_

“I would never have understood without that little bit of heartbreak,” Bruce says wistfully.“Beyond that, though, I just want to.I’m not denying that anymore.”He giggles.“Hell, I’m disappointed I only get to do this _once._ Do you realize how many ways I know how to kill you?How long I’ve spent studying you, and Diana, and Barry, and all the others?I’ve prepared for every conceivable situation wherein one of us went rogue.Except one.”His laughter is beginning to resemble another.“Who’da thought?I never prepared for it to be _me.”_

One hand on his hip, he tosses the kryptonite up and down like a baseball, regarding it carefully.“I had to really think about it, how to kill you.‘Cause you’re my best friend, right?It’s gotta be special.You and Diana, you’re special.And I came to the decision that, the best way to kill you, is to watch you kill yourself.”His eyes return to Clark.“This is a modified strand of black kryptonite.I haven’t been able to test it on a living subject so honestly I have no idea what’s going to happen.It’s pretty exciting.If it works like I tried to make it, first you’re gonna kill your family, then you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Bruce, please… we can fix this.Whatever the Joker did to you—”

Bruce descends on him, beats him like someone with nothing to lose.The kryptonite touching his skin burns like nothing else; he cries out when it grazes his cheeks. 

“What he did to me,” Bruce huffs, unamused, “was show me the lie I was telling myself.That I’m nothing like him, that I do the right thing, that I’m in this for the good of the people.We think we’re any better than them.We’re really not.”His chipper attitude returns.“I’m done lying to myself.Life’s more fun on this side.Now then,” he tosses the kryptonite into Clark’s lap—

“—Catch.”

It burns.Bruce can actually hear it flaying Clark’s skin.The idiot reflexively caught it, and now it’s in his skin, spreading.The Robins crow and crow, and move away from the Kents. 

“Clark?Clark?!” Lois cries, crawling towards him.

“Lois, ahhh…. stand ba—back a-aaaaahh!”

“Dad?” Jon is crying bloody tears, as are his parents, “Dad, mom’s what’s hap—ah!”

“Clark?Jon?Stand back!Get back! AHHHH!”

He observes, riveted, as his best friend tears his family into delectable little pieces.The Robins fight over the scraps that fall close to them.He sings delightedly to fill in the silence caused by mutilated necks.“ _Oh I just can’t look, it’s killing me._ ”

When his family are naut but jigsaw puzzles of once-people, Clark falls to his knees and sobs.And sobs.And sobs.Amused, Bruce tilts his head, and waits.

The kryptonite is still in Clark’s hand, seared into place.With an agonizing wail, he rips it out with the other hand and drives it directly into his heart, pushes and pushes until the organ is pierced.Blood gushes.Red tears stain his skin.Bruce watches, enraptured, while his closest friend takes his last breaths.

All is still.Bruce cups his ear over Clark’s face to listen for breathing; a mockery, really, for the scanners in his helmet have already identified him deceased.He giggles, claps his hands together like he’s cleaning them, and spins on his heel.

“Wrap it up with a bow,” he instructs, “a present for the rest of them.We’re just getting started, my pets.”He pretends to check a watch and grins.

_“How did it end up like this.”_

 

—————

 

It takes the Justice League longer to come after him than he anticipated.A well coordinated attack, like they had sat at a round table together and discussed it.How to bring down the Batman.Unfortunately for them, Bruce dedicated much time to studying all of them, their methods, strengths, and weaknesses, since the day he met them.On anyone else, perhaps they may have been able to best him.He looks them in the eyes as he kills them, every last one. 

The Hall of Justice could not have been a better stage.As the League’s numbers dwindle, and the Robins get full, he finds himself missing the challenge.

“You ever gotten a song stuck in your head you’ve never heard?”He makes conversation as Diana is trying to kill him.“Like you just wake up and you know the words.I have.I’ve been humming it for days.Driving me nuts.Any advice?”

She bashes his head with her shield and thrusts her sword towards his abdomen.He uses the momentum from the hit to dodge the blade.The Sunblade, weapon of the Gods, entrusted to the Amazons.Thirsting for the blood of yet another man.

“You know, I’m disappointed,” he says as she lunges for him.“I really expected this to be more difficult.Am I seriously going to kill all of you in a day?”The sword comes back; he swats it away.“It’s a wonder we ever got anything done.”

He fakes a punch to kick her legs out from under her.He grabs her shield and _twists,_ breaking bones before pulling it off.He discards it indifferently.She uses her good arm to jam her elbow into the backs of his knees.When he stumbles, however, he brings his foot down on her kidney.The wind leaves her lungs.

He hears her gasp “Hera, give me strength,” and then he’s being tossed across the room.She picks him up by the front and throws him again, up against a cement pillar.When she winds up for a punch, it’s met with a batarang that sinks straight through her fist with her own momentum.She grunts in pain, but shakes it off.Not in time to keep Bruce subdued.He swipes the lasso off her hip and gets it around her neck.

“Seriously, any advice?It’s driving me _crazy._ She’s calling a cab and he’s having a smoke but she’s the one taking the drag and my stomach is sick.”She yanks him towards her but it backfires, allowing him to get her across the cheek with his arm blades.“Not _my_ stomach, the singer’s.He’s creeping on this couple.I can’t tell if he’s got it for the guy or the girl.”

He pulls tight on the lasso until Diana can do nothing but clutch it, pulling at it desperately to try and breathe.Keeping a tight hold, he moves up the rope until he’s right behind her.He takes a fistful of hair.With her immobilized, he bends down to retrieve her sword, circling around to her front.

She glares at him with murder in her eyes.He smiles warmly.“Between the two of us, I always admired your strength.You are a warrior, trained for war.In war you kill your enemies so they can’t kill you.You left that life and joined the Justice League, golden rule: no killing.And you never did.But you knew you _could,_ because you have.”

Keeping a tight hold on her hair, he crouches, leveling her sword under her throat.“Some part of me truly doesn’t want to kill you.You’re special, Diana.More special than Clark, more special than any of these other morons.But, _it’s just the price I pay.Destiny is calling me.”_ His grin is ready to devour her flesh. 

Eyes inches from hers, he pushes her sword into her abdomen, slow and intimate.This close, the sensors in his lenses render the fine details of her expression.Her breaths come in gasps and wheezes; the blade probably hit her diaphragm.Her armor cinches the wound closed, even after he twists and removes.This only serves to make her death longer, and more painful.Still she defies him.She stares back, eyes screaming bloody murder, trying to break his hold even though she knows she can’t.Eventually she tires, muscles sore and out of oxygen. 

She does not die with fear, or malice.She dies with sorrow, for the loss of her friend and the end of the world.When she’s gone, he lays her down, placing her sword back in her hand.He kisses her forehead. 

“Because I’m Mr. Brightside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so the Mr. Brightside thing was probably only funny to me but do you ever just get that song stuck in your head even if you haven’t heard it in forever? I was listening to other music while writing and rewriting this and somehow Mr. Brightside got stuck in my head both times. So now it’s Bruce’s problem. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you have thoughts to share I’d love to hear them. See you next week <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's chapter is a little short, but he really needed to upgrade his wardrobe.

The Wayne family has always been a family of entrepreneurs.The term “old money” was possibly coined specifically to refer to them.For as far back as the records go, a Wayne was making something, and making it quite successfully.The Wayne Enterprises of today strives to make _everything_ , and make everything quite successfully.Mostly they deal in technology now, but Bruce has plenty of that.Right now, he’s looking back at the basics, towards a Wayne family trade lost to the Industrial Revolution.

Working with leather is no easy feat.It is rough, thick, stubborn, and a bitch to sew.In the 1700s, Albert Wayne was a master leather smith, well known within the local and surrounding communities as a jack of all trades.Whatever you needed, whatever you wanted, he could make it.A true Wayne.Centuries later, one of his descendants is now tapping in to those roots. 

Leather can stop a bullet, if it’s thick enough, or layered enough.The bulk and weight of such a material is impractical, and so it was never much entertained as bulletproof protection, but Bruce is built to peak human condition and can manage the extra load.It’ll be worth it. 

Metal.Also heavy in large sums.Match made in heaven with leather.The belts loop through the metal clasps, gentle tinkling sounding as they bump and sway.The shoulder pieces are the most difficult; he has to buckle them shut after pulling them overhead.Like a shoulder harness on a rollercoaster without the intent of safety. 

Currently he’s working on a new helmet, sharpening the metal on a pedal wheel.Sparks fly and stone grates as the wheel shapes the material into the finest points.The base he takes from a prototype cowl, still unassembled.He seals shut the holes left for the ear mechanisms.The metal ring is simple enough to cut; the finer details require greater concentration.Eight metal spikes are welded around the rings.He tests them with a finger: a bead of blood with the lightest pressure.He sucks the wound clean with perhaps more vigor than necessary.The ears stand tall and strong, skewering the air above, and anything that dares come too close.The lenses he leaves as a false target.He upgraded the sensors beyond the capabilities of nature; ways of seeing no ordinary human ever could.Wider peripherals, greater focus, false color, everything except true tone.The natural world lies. 

The Robins crow with excitement the first time he puts it on.Like a glove.He admires the full ensemble in a mirror for the first time.It’s… almost perfect.But something’s off.

He approaches the mirror.The chest piece is masterfully crafted, thicker than a rhino’s hide and half the weight.His freshly crafted double-sided batarangs, functional as both throwing knives and hand blades, are holstered at his sides.Hidden in plain sight, they’re in easy reach and blend with the leather of the holders.Smoke pellets of normal fog and Smilex occupy another concealed pouch, along with a modified explosive gel.Now in silly string form, with a messier detonation.Everything is built to lethal efficiency, and looking damn fine is just icing on the cake.

Most of the electronic functions have been discarded; but then, he doesn’t really need them.No team with which to communicate, no detective work to blunder through, just the brass-knuckled fist of vengeance and a sense of self-righteousness tougher than metal.The last remaining tool of the Batman of old are the sensors in the cowl’s lenses.

The thought of Joker’s approval shows up unprovoked and unwanted.He would have made jokes about all the leather, the grunge aesthetic.He takes in the pallor of his skin, almost as marble white as his late enemy.But the metaphorical eyes staring back at him are undeniably his own.Same face.Same body.Same ridiculous ears.But he is different.His perspective on life has been remade, his image remade to reflect it, but something crucial, something fundamental, is gone.

With a frown, he turns his back on his traitorous reflection.He does not recall punching it, but the next time he passes it, it is shattered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments make my week. Note the changed chapter count, the end is fast approaching. See you next week! <3


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one’s a little late, I was away for the weekend and overslept. I hope you enjoy!

He sees it now.

He sees it in the way the streets erupt in violence immediately following his change in wardrobe.It’s in the way the bottom-feeders announce themselves the victors.They run and drive down the roads with flame-torches, faces rubbed with cheap face paint meant to intimidate or emulate.Most of all, he sees it in the way they drop their torches and hold up their hands.He sees it in the way their tails tuck in, and the rain runs with blood and cheap makeup, and the lights go out and don’t turn back on.He sees it in the dark, he hears it in the silence.

First, the people send the police.Jim Gordon leads the attack, with a look on his face much like Alfred’s before he squeezed the trigger.Commissioner James Gordon, the last face of good and just in Gotham City, is publicly executed in Gotham Square.Every television and phone screen in America broadcasts the special event.He sees it in their eyes, the eyes that can’t look away no matter the horror.

Then, the people send the FBI.With Jim Gordon gone — the last person trying to keep the FBI out of Gotham at all — the federal government closes in.They request backup from the national guard on the third day.Then the army.Amanda Waller sends in the Suicide Squad; they earn their title that day.When they put the President on a jet for asylum in an allied territory, Bruce shoots it down with their own anti-aircraft units. 

He sees it in the way the petrol erupts and the debris float on air.The largest pieces plummet and hit the water fast and hard, but chaos still reigns in the blast zone.The strays can do nothing but watch, and anticipate which will get them first: the blaze or the swell.

It was never about destroying a city.It was never about a body count.It was never about money.It wasn’t even really about notoriety, or power, or kings, or empires.These are the motivations of mortal beings.Men.They were never just men.

He understands now that his purpose ended with Joker’s life.He had fulfilled it, but at the same time, had failed it.Joker’s death happened because it could happen, though not necessarily because it must be so.When the balance tipped, however, its consequence was not the one the world might have expected.Who is the real person underneath the mask?Is the mask more the truth than the man?Or, is it neither?Are they both doomed to morph and change until the difference is indistinguishable. 

He saw it all in a dream.A single dream, more likely an unconscious hallucination upon receiving a good concussion, but no matter.  In the downtime he returned the cowl back to the flames and cast it anew, and this time it is perfect.He removes the lenses, reshapes the face area.The metal ring dips below his eyes, obscuring them completely.The sensors he hides throughout the metal workings.The ultimate blindsight.He sees the truth, the universe as it truly exists.Damaged, wrong, broken, unbalanced, on a path towards obsolescence.And he has a front row seat.One he built himself, from the tattered remains of the world that gave him nothing and still managed to take it all away.

It comes to his attention that the one he’s using as an ottoman is still alive.He frowns at it, displeased at having been removed from his internal monologue.“Shush,” he puts his finger to his lips.It jumps out of its skin at the sound, terrified of having been noticed.It tries, but even the ball gag in its mouth cannot stop the whimpering.Isn’t that the whole point?When had a ball gag been put in its mouth?

A Robin jumps to the arm of the throne, itself made out of many arms.He pets its fluffy little head.It may have been a girl before it became his.“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he says, half to his pets and half to his ottoman, “that perimeter they set around the city, that was fun.Their faces were so funny.Like they’d never seen a costumed freak before.It was fun, while it lasted, but then they retreated, and they took all the toys with them.”

He kicks the ottoman to the side to stand, clasps his hands behind his back, and begins to pace.“They evacuated the whole state, did you hear?Evacuated and quarantined the state.Like we’re some kind of disease.A contagion.They think they can draw a line in the sand and tell me where my limitations are.Ha!”He kicks the ottoman again, and punctuates each word with another.“Batman — has — no — limits.Not anymore, never again.”

The ottoman has metal around its neck and a chain on the ground.He picks it up and yanks the ottoman back to its hands and knees so he can put a leg up.His arms drape off his thigh as he leans in to the Robin, still perched on the arms, and scratches under her chin a little.“The only thing keeping him focused solely on Gotham, was me.The only thing that spared this country — this whole planet, really — from his cure for boredom, was a crush.How quaint.”He tilts his head in thought.The Robin mirrors him, and he smiles.“He had a vision of the world.Do you know what it was?”

He retracts his foot to get down to the ottoman’s level and listen.It whimpers behind the gag, but he can’t decipher any syllables from it.With a “humph,” he stands again and crushes its head into the dirt and grit.“That.All of this was one big joke to him, and he was the only one that got the humor.Nothing I do to this city matters anymore.The game’s over.”

He tilts his head back to exhale.Had his tear ducts not been mutilated, he might be crying.“Playtime’s over.It’s just me now.

The Robin crows.She jumps down, landing first on the ottoman, then the ground, and twists herself around Bruce’s leg.She crows incessantly, and one of her siblings hears her, and joins in.He smiles fondly and laughs as they fight over his leg.

“They’ve got a point,” he muses, “Gotham’s not enough.When you get right down to it it’s just not that special.We could be doing more.”He grins down at the ottoman.Its eyes widen.“We could be doing so much more.”

He kicks his heel to activate the switchblade in his boot and kicks the ottoman’s ribs.Over and over he maims, as he emphasizes his point.“Gotham was the — beginning, not — the ending.I’m supposed to be — out there, reshaping the world — the way he’d want me to.The way I want me to.I’m the only one that can finish what we started.” 

He tilts his head.The ottoman isn’t crying anymore.“I don’t think you heard that last point.”He walks away, waving indifference over his shoulder.The Robins follow without need of a hand on their leads.

“Quarantine,” he grumbles to himself as he makes his way to the car.“They think they can line up a bunch of bricks and tanks and call me secured.They think they can protect anyone from me.”

He catches his reflection in the side mirror.He’s frowning, grumpy, like he used to be.He twists his features into a grin, but it’s not natural.Forced, it looks forced.He never had to force the smile.It’s not alive if it’s forced.

He shakes off the feeling, all the way down his leg and kicks it out.That gets a giggle out of him; it’s enough.He puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles for the Robins.They all come running, chains thumping along behind them.Damian emerges and climbs into the passenger seat.One jumps in with him, one ends up in the trunk (it likes the trunk), and the rest climb on and grab hold somewhere.

“Fasten your seatbelts, kiddies,” he says as he climbs in, closing the roof behind himself, “you know I would never want to put my children in harm’s way.”He laughs and peels out.

“Where are we going, father?”Damian asks, elbowing the Robin in the face to keep it from jumping up on him.It hisses.Damian’s newly adorned spikes almost get it in the eye.

“It’s high time we moved on from Gotham, don’t you think?”He asks.“I’m getting bored. Target practice on dead things isn’t a challenge.Blowing up buildings when no one’s inside is pointless.The ankle-biters are running out of ankles to bite.Time for a change of scenery.”

Damian nods.“I wasn’t sure of your opinion on leaving.”

Bruce looks at him quizzically.“Because?”

Damian shrugs.“Because of him.”

Bruce smiles, and laughs, though it sounds only for himself.“Wherever I go, he’s always with me.Always was, always will be.”

“Because you are the same.”

Bruce snaps, and wags a finger in the air.The delivery was rehearsed but he’ll take it.“You, me, and the ankle biters, we’re a legacy.And it’s high time the world knew that.So, we have a few stops to make.First I’m dropping you at our favorite toy store—”

“—The airship base?”

Bruce swats him.“Don’t interrupt.Yes, the aircraft hangar.We’re going to pick something nice and give it a makeover.Once the heavy lifting’s done I’m going to the Hall of Justice for an… errand.Something to match.Then,” he giggles, “then we’re going to deliver the punchline.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence.Slipping past the quarantine takes no effort, and the air base is only a few miles outside the city suburbs.A small voice in the back of his head fears there will be none left, after all Joker’s had so many, but no, it’s still there.The Gotham Goodyear Blimp.Many companies have rented it for temporary advertisement over the years, but underneath the dress it’s still the big blue dirigible in the sky.Perhaps Joker thought it too close to home, but for whatever reason, he never used this one.Starting tonight that changes.

The first two coats of paint are black.While that settles they raid the military hangar next door and rig it with a diverse array of bombs and explosives.Damian and the Robins take turns splattering the balloon and the weapons with purple and green paint.With them occupied with that, Bruce slips away in the car, headed for the Hall of Justice.He returns with red paint, which he uses to paint a broad, bloody cheshire grin under the nose.From the trunk of the Batmobile he drags the corpses of the fallen Justice league.Diana, Clark, Barry, Victor, Oliver, Hal, faces people will recognize.When the bombs start dropping they will look up into the sky with hope, waiting for these familiar faces to come and save them.They will see their heroes, and they will know.They will see the joke.The last thing they ever see, and it will be hilarious

It takes three minutes to level Gotham.The end, the beginning.He puts their rudder to the smoke, out into the new.Their vehicle will upgrade, the carnage will rise, the challenge will double, the Robins will probably get fat.It’s all there in the cards, in the rubble and ash.He feels none of it when he looks down at his home, now a charred lump.There is nothing for his sensors to detect.Gone, it’s all gone.  At long last, she is at peace.

They’re free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts if you have a moment to share! Next week is the end of this adventure, can you believe? I can’t. I hope to see you all next week for the end of this ride <3


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, some twentysomething who’d never read a comic wanted to get in to comics. So she goes to a comic store, buys some shit, reads it, likes it. A short while later a cover catches her eye and she falls down a rabbithole into the loudest, craziest mosh pit of a story so appropriately entitled Metal. Now Metal’s got a few EPs and a tour schedule, and it looks like they’ve saved best for last. Each issue before is full of love, and passion, and heartbreak and trauma bore from naïve mistakes in times of desperation. And then the title song drops and it’s... nothing like the rest of the album. At all. And this is quite bothersome for this novice reader because at this point they’ve established that this is about a man at the edge of his sanity losing the people he loves. And she thought, no. There’s a love story here. If they’d just dug a little deeper, maybe been a little braver, they’d have told the most painful love story of all. But they didn’t. Then she thought... maybe I could?

How much more blood can spill.

He used to ask himself that a lot.After one death or fifty, clean or savage, young or old, that was always the question.How much more blood can they spill.How many more lives can they take.The answer, he learns, is: not as much as he can.Whole cities, whole counties, whole states, in time, destroyed.Mutilated.Burned.He felt the heat of it in the metal of his mask, the false color image nothing but white in his brain.Everything burns.When the flames cooled, the sky stayed red. 

Until very recently.Auroras of purple and blue sometimes flash through the clouds; sometimes magenta lightning strikes the harbor. Lacking his old toys he’s left to study the phenomenon like the daydreamers of old.Except he can’t appreciate the stars he knows are there.The Milky Way in all her beauty, visible again with the light pollution gone, but the last man on Earth can only see what’s left in front of him.

Down below, at the base of the skyscraper, the Robins play, scratching and biting and crowing at one another.One of them is undoubtedly chewing on its chain; it frequently does when he lets them go.Better to munch on that than the corpses.Every time they try to eat one of the carcasses they only end up getting sick from the rotting meat.Frontal lobe damage; perhaps a tad too much.He taught them to dig for the bones, pull them from the body, and break them to get to the marrow that may still be in there.They slurped and chewed with delight when they got the hang of it.One of them keeps a humerus with it now, a favorite chew toy.Whatever keeps them from projectile vomiting on each other.Though it’s a good laugh.

There is no wind, but the clouds swirl.Shades of purple and magenta move with them.The clouds themselves are not grey, so no rain will come today.The moon is a bright, full white, when it manages to peak out.Electricity stirs faint in his headpiece.Thunder booms, and the stirring increases.Finally the lightning cracks and it reverberates all around his head.He smiles.This pattern repeats a few times, growing faster, until the lightning looks like it will vaporize the harbor. 

The clouds darken.His eyes narrow.The shadows take shape, become a silhouette of something, alive and approaching.With a hurricane-force gust, the clouds scatter and reveal the figure.The beat of its large, bat-like wings swirl the clouds around it, creating an ominous fog.Leathery skin moves over muscle, and underneath, what looks like the skeleton of a large bat, worn on the chest like a brand.The gray kilt, held in place by chains, flows around its legs, like the ash from a crematorium.It lands on the edge of a building facing Bruce, talons the size of trucks shattering the glass underneath.Then it stands, wings spread their full length.

“Bruce Wayne,” it bellows, in a voice neither physical nor telepathic, “you have done well here.”

“Aw, shucks,” Bruce says, overplaying flattery, “I try.”

“You are the one I need,” it continues, “the one to oppose the wagon and drag his world into the dark.”

“Whoa there,” he mocks with glee, “buy a girl a drink first, bud.”

“I am Barbatos,” it declares.“Dragon of the Forge, destroyer of worlds, executioner of light.”

Bruce whistles.“Is that all?”

“No, there is much more.More worlds to conquer and burn, more hope to crush, more lives to end, so we can start anew.”

“Mm.”He side-eyes the beast and begins walking away.He waves a flippant hand over hid shoulder.“Have fun with that.”

He feels more than he hears the force of a single wing beat, and then a clawed foot almost hits him as it wraps around the base of the lighting tower.He looks up; Barbatos clings to the spire by talon and foot.“An army of nightmares will murder the light.You will lead them.My perfect weapon against the Prime.”

Bruce shifts his balance to one side, tapping his chin.“Mmmmmmmmm, no thanks.”

“You would defy me?” Barbatos snaps.

Bruce laughs.“Sure would.Listen.Pretending anything you’ve said made sense, I don’t work with teams.Never really got the hang of that, bored, ta.”

He walks away, triumphant.As he readies to jump, a cage of black traps and lifts him.The blades are tempting, but he knows a lost fight when he sees one.Petulant, he crosses his arms again and waits to glare at his captor.

The claws part to reveal a face still mostly hidden by its hood and the shadows of the pale moon.Its eyes spark with electricity, a hint of purple in their glow.His mouth curves upward to one side.

“Did your mother teach you no manners?”He drawls.Memories of please and thank you, elbows off the table, put it back how you found it, are gone as soon as they come, and forgotten.“Mine did.”

“Your world is immaterial,” says Barbatos, “all worlds in our multiverse are anathema, whole realities that should never have existed.They are all destined for destruction.Even now, you see it.The sky turns red, and soon all of this will be gone.”

Bruce’s foot taps.His muscles pull taut.“.... your point?”

Wings tower above them and then propel them into the air.Once again the claws constrict, but he can tell by the changes in pressure how high they are, until his feet leave the ground.The claws part, and he sees everything.Sees with eyes that no longer belong to him.Every last thing, and it’s all wrong.

“Behold, your universe,” Barbatos says.“Burning, decaying.A universe that was never meant to be, and always destined to die.This universe, and all of its counterparts, will fall.But with you, their destruction will have meaning.”

Their surroundings change.They still float above Earth, but there’s something... off about it.And the gases around them now have hues of green.

“These Earths were formed by one man’s worst nightmares.Here, Bruce Wayne is responsible for the death of Barbara Gordon, the Batgirl.His life spirals and splinters around him.Very soon he will admit to James Gordon that she was his partner, and it was he that failed to save her.Their friendship will end, and James Gordon will declare war on the Batman.Gotham City will be a crater, and the rest of the world will follow.”

Bruce claps.“Sounds like a party.”

“There are dozens of Earths out there, waiting for you to conquer them.Dozens of Justice Leagues to murder.Dozens of Batmen pushed to their limits, seeking new purpose and redemption. They will all prepare you for the final battle.”

“Again with this battle stuff,” Bruce spits.“Take a hint, _not interested._ I’m no one’s _pet,_ or understudy, or tool.I don’t take orders, I give them, and I certainly do not call anyone else _master._ I already knew the world was going to shit and I already knew none of it mattered.Had a good teacher.Now put me down.”

The beast’s eyes are pure lightning, crackling and glowing purple.Bruce's grin stretches higher, wider, waiting for his punishment.The claws constrict around him, and he is brought to eye level with the beast.The blinding light of its eyes contain the deaths of all of the unmade souls that fell to the Dragon of the Forge.And then, the light changes.

“No, you’re not a soldier, are you,” Barbatos says, almost to himself, for how quiet it was. 

They fly.Bruce watches planets and galaxies and star systems pass them by.It is truly remarkable, the ease with which the beast can move from universe to universe.Like a stone skipping on water, barely more than a few dots on the surface before they are on to the next.The beat of its leathery wings ripples down through its form, to the very tips of the claws that still engulf Bruce.

They dodge a meteor, and then Earth is in front of them.His Earth.Home.He’s almost disappointed that it looks healthy from above.He went to a lot of trouble to burn half of it down.

Barbatos sets them down somewhere nondescript; the plateaus of Utah, maybe.It lets Bruce slip between its claws so it can impale them into the rock, hanging like it did on the lightning rod. 

“Do you wish to know why these worlds must die?”

Bruce shrugs his shoulders dramatically, arms spread wide and high.He giggles a little to himself.

“They must die, so the light can live.” 

With a flick of his wrist he conjures an image of another Earth.It’s similar to Earth-52, perhaps a bit larger.Bruce scans it, then returns his attention to the beast.

“This is Earth Prime.What happens here determines the fate of every universe in existence.On Earth Prime, Bruce Wayne’s deepest fears are naught but nightmares.By existing as reality here, in the dark multiverse, it ensures that they will never come to fruition in the light.”

Bruce considers this for a moment.“So, you’re saying that since Babs died in that other universe, she can’t die on Earth Prime?”

“She will not die in battle.When Death is imminent, Batman will never fail her.She, and the rest of his family, will always survive.”

He thinks.He never failed any of them, not once.They always made it out alive, one way or another.Even Jason.“He lost his Babs and went ‘round the bend.What makes him snap everywhere else?Losing someone?” 

Barbatos nods.More electricity crackles in the air, and form a dozen silhouettes of Bat costumes.Some of them look inspired by others in the Justice League.“His allies or his family.It changes him.”

“Yeah, one time it made him dress like a bat,” Bruce mumbles to himself.“So, he loses Babs, Jimmy Jim gets offended, and then Gotham’s a crater.These guys,” he gestures to the outlines, “he’s responsible for their deaths somehow.Being responsible for the death of someone he loves.”He nods.“Yeah, I can see it.I can see a lot of it.There’s so much more that could cause a Batman to snap, when you get right down to it.And there all down here in the dark, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Barbatos says, holding its head high.“I will kill it all, light and dark, and forge creation anew.I will unleash his worst nightmares on him, and make him watch as they destroy his family, his home, his life, and then all will go still.”Its eyes glow again, but it’s not as sharp or threatening.“The others, they will need a leader.His worst nightmare.His darkest desire, his deepest fear.”

He lets it sink in, lets the words marinate in his brain until they give the full picture.And then he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.Clutching his stomach, he nearly falls backwards with the way his laughter shakes him. 

“So, ha!So you’re saying — it never would have worked.We — haha! — We never could have, because up there — we can.Right?”Barbatos nods once, slow and resolute.Bruce resumes laughing, from deep in his belly and sharp in his throat.His eyes sting where his tear ducts used to rest.“And he won’t, will he?!Because — ha! — because he’s a fucking moron and he won’t just—”

He makes a motion like wiping away tears.They're there, even though he knows it’s not possible.The joke’s almost over.“He won’t just _do it.”_

The silhouettes dissipate.Barbatos drops down from the cliff, crouching closer to Bruce’s line of sight.“Up there in the light, they are all feeble.Their worlds are the worlds of possibility and none of them ever seize it.They let it escape untapped, and claim it was never there.They of the light are the only beings with true chance and choice.”

When the beast’s wings lift and curve, a brutal wind flows through and around them.Electricity sparks and screeches as sand swirls in the air.

“Bruce Wayne of Earth Prime is weak.He won’t kill the Joker, no matter how much he wishes to, nor will he bed him, no matter how much he craves it.He is undeserving of these possibilities.All of them are.”

Some of the sand in the air turns black.In horror, he looks down.A compartment of his belt is open: the wind is stealing Joker’s ashes.His blood heats in a way it hasn’t in years.With a feral rage, he draws his batarang blades and charges the beast.A black hand stops him.

He remembers a bullet in the dust.The impact of a .44 in the middle of his forehead.When the dust settled, it was Joker, and a gun, lines tight, shoulders squared, aiming from the side.There is no gun, but there is a hand, and it’s just as dangerous.The electricity carries the ash, and the ash takes a form.Joker.His Joker.

Joker brushes some dirt off, straightens his jacket, and gives Bruce the most shit-eating grin.“Mhmm, Mushu up there has a point, Bats,” Joker says, fully materialized.There is still a faint electric aura around him, but he is exactly as Bruce remembers.He can do nothing but stare as Joker circles him, reaching out to stroke but never quite making contact.“You kneeeewww in your heart that we were made for each other.So many nights spent awake crying ‘cause you missed me.”He chuckles.“We never had a chance, not down here.But,” he does a skip and a clap, “we can change all that.Tall dark and spooky here wipes the slate clean and then we can do it all over again.And this time you’re not gonna be an idiot, are you?”

Bruce stares at him, lips parted in longing.The logical side of his brain is reminding him that this is not Joker, it’s a manipulative tactic.But the emotional side of his brain is remembering the dreams, when Joker was gentle and affectionate and human.It was a dream but it was real.This is real, too.

“You can bring him back,” Bruce says, “not make a new one, bring that one back.”

“I am a God,” Barbatos says, “my will is done.If you will join me, I will give you the life you longed for.You burned your world to the ground because of love lost.I can give you a new one, a better one.And it starts by snuffing out the light, so all the potential and possibility contained therein are ours for the taking.”

Joker smiles up at Barbatos, then at Bruce.He returns it.

“Well then,” he says, lips stretching impossibly wide, “let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like every story, ours has come to an end. I hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. This piece was a ton of fun and it really speaks to just how much fun the writers of this amazing clusterfuck of a story must have had while they were doing this. There were a few tears but mostly a lot of laughter on my end as I made shitty jokes to myself. I think this is the longest I have ever spent writing and rewriting and editing and editing and editing a writing project so I hope I can keep that up in future endeavors.
> 
> Of course, this is just an alternate beginning to the story of the Batman Who Laughs. If you have not read Metal, I cannot recommend it enough. If you started and never finished you should really finish, the ending is quite lovely. Since it was such a clusterfuck it might be intimidating to pick up cuz shit where do I start? Start here. The wonderful people at ComicBookHerald took the time to find the best reading order for the issues, including some optional pre-reading. There are two billion references so it’s unlikely anyone except Scott Snyder actually knows what’s being said 100% of the time so don’t worry if stuff goes over your head. It was the first crossover event I ever read, maybe a month after I started reading comics. It’s still a wild fucking ride. https://www.comicbookherald.com/reading-dc-comics/dc-rebirth-reading-order/dark-nights-metal-reading-order/
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your support and comments and readership and blah blah, seriously it means so much to me that I can share my interests with others. I am not done writing TBWL at all. I hope to see you at the next one. <3


	26. He Came In A Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “He woke with insight, and a sense of finality.”

Do people born blind dream in picture?Bruce, having been born with 20/20 vision, cannot speak for them.For himself the answer is yes, because he knew sight once.It’s a bit frustrating that, despite how obvious it should be that he’s dreaming, he doesn’t usually notice that he’s regained his sight until he wakes up without it.Not that he misses it; the gift it gave him was so much better.Through those eyes he saw nothing but deception and fabrication.The fantasy worlds people tried to masquerade as truth.Now, he sees the darkness beneath.

Except in dreams, when he’s forced back into the light.

Sometimes, the light is so bright, such pure contrast to the void, that it feels like a bullet to the brain.Sometimes the first minute of sleep is adjusting to presence, the act of existing in space.As his eyes adjust, details form, and then he’s back in the world.This vision, like it was before, is more untruth.

He is Bruce Wayne.He’s at a restaurant with some twenty-something starlet who will wash up by twenty seven, if she isn’t already.She’s flirty and funny, with a button nose and gentle brown eyes.He’s seen whatever movie she’s just returned from promoting, but can’t recall.He wishes he could pay attention to whatever she’s saying but the room feels… off.

“Bruce?” She asks, concern marking her tone.

“Sorry, sorry,” he turns back to her.There’s a bullet wound square in her forehead.He can see the exit wound reflected in the mirror behind her, between the chunks of brain and bone.

“Is something wrong?” She asks, blood spilling out of her nude-painted lips.Her head falls into her plate.

He’s on his feet, chair screeching away and toppling over.There’s no one else in the room.The angle and size of the wound is impossible.Point blank.Lifting her head reveals the creases in the skin where the muzzle of the gun met her head.But he was right here, there was no one.

A shadow moves.Faint giggling reverberates off the walls.He follows.

The shadow moves faster.So does he.The giggling gets louder, more difficult to contain.He pats himself down for a weapon, but even giving his current dress, his lack of arms is shocking.He chases the shadow up the back stairways.

He exits to the roof.The shadow bears a purple silhouette against the moonlit backdrop of the city.It turns its head, and grins a familiar grin.Something lurches in his chest.

“Beautiful night, eh, Bats?” Joker says.

“Joker, how—”

“Sorry about your date,” Joker drawls, sardonic, “she was taking too long.I wanted my turn.”

He sits, dangling his legs off the edge of the building.When Bruce doesn’t move, he pats the space next to him.“Well come on, doofus, come enjoy the view.There ain’t gonna be another night like this one, trust me.”

Stiff as a corpse, Bruce moves one foot in front of the other until he’s standing at his enemy’s side.“I thought, you, I —”

“Killed me?”Joker smiles up at him, pure affection.“You did, sweetie.I’ve always loved the feeling of your hands around my neck.”He giggles.“What a way to go.”

Tentative, Bruce sits, legs crossed at the edge.“Crane or Tetch?”

Joker laughs, throwing his head back.  “His automatic assumption is he’s been drugged or brainwashed.  Most people ask if they’re dreaming first, darling.”

“You and I are not most people,” Bruce says.

Joker shrugs.“True.You’re not drugged, but I’m flattered you’d think Crane’s spooky juice would make you hallucinate me.”

“I’m doing this to myself, then,” Bruce sighs.

Joker regards him out of the corner of his eye.His head tilts.“Doing what to yourself?”

Bruce says nothing, refuses to meet his eyes.Reclining on his hands, Joker leans in to him.

“‘Torturing myself?’Is that what your pretty-boy eyes are saying?Why, do you feel guiltyyyyyyy?”He narrows his eyes.“ _Don’t_.It was perfect.”

“You’re happy?” Bruce asks.

Joker shakes the hair out of his eyes.“Ecstatic.Euphoric.Over the moon.”He regards Bruce’s expression, and continues, “it’s what I always wanted, Bats.The only thing that fit.”

“Yes.You win.”

Joker swats him.“Nothing would insult my life more than a boring death.Can you even imagine me dying a natural death?Old age or disease?Or some other sap getting a lucky shot that did me in?”He waves the idea away.“No no.You were the only thing worthy.”

Bruce stares at his hands, dry and calloused.It’s strange, seeing his body again.“Why did it have to be like that.”

Joker shrugs.“Because it had to.”

Bruce shakes his head.“I don’t believe in destiny.There is no script.We make our decisions and then we have to live with them.”

“Mm, and you’re handling it all very well.”Giggles erupt from his companion.He has to fight a smile at his own expense.

Still looking away, Bruce exhales.“When… when I cremated you, I told you I wasn’t sorry I killed you.And I’m not.I don’t think.But, everything changed so fast.For the longest time it’s just been about stopping you, and then I did, and now…” His head hangs.“Now none of it matters anymore.The game’s over.”

Joker rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder.“Oh, poor Bats.So lost without his Jay.The world out there doesn’t make sense anymore, does it?”He nuzzles into Bruce’s neck with a deep breath.“Honey, I decide when the game is over.It’s not over.The arena’s changed, but it’s not over.”

“I don’t understand.”

Joker rolls his eyes, then his whole body, and faces Bruce.“First we made the legacy.Now we cement it.”

The words root deep.They bleed, slotting in to every fold and indent of his brain.His new truth.The center of the universe shifts.

It’s his Joker.At this distance there’s no mistaking it.Porcelain skin, high cheekbones, his favorite lipstick (Jeffree Star; he’s analyzed them all, every time, for science reasons), and those eyes.Those damnable iridescent eyes, cold and cunning and razor sharp.Locking eyes with the Joker is enough to make most fold to the ground and quake.But for Bruce, it’s the best way to feel alive.They’re sweeping over his every feature, looking for a response, for validation, _do_ _you_ _understand?_

Joker cocks his head, puzzled.When Bruce does not answer, he swings his legs up, folds them under himself, and covers Bruce’s eyes with his hands.Bruce flinches, but doesn’t move.“Do you remember that little game we played on the pier?”

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

Joker laughs, soft and fond.“I gave you a blindfold and told you to follow.Just our bodies, just my voice.You always find me, where no one else would know to look.You don’t need these—” he wiggles his fingers in front of Bruce’s face, “—to know where to go next.You know where I am.”He kisses the crown of Bruce’s head.“You know what I want.”He kisses his forehead.“You know what I’d do.”The tip of his nose.“You know,” their lips brush, “what I always knew you could be.”

He can’t breathe.He cups Joker’s face but prays Joker doesn’t move his hands.The tears he’s fighting complicates that.“This… isn’t real.It’s just a dream.”

He barely registers the light before his head turns with the force of a hard, loud slap across the face.Joker laughs at his bewilderment.

“Ha!That feel like a dream?”

Bruce tackles him, pinning him by the wrists.He does not fight, but makes himself comfortable, grinning up at his captor.“Oh you’re definitely delirious, positively batty, but it’s as real as you let it be, darling.And you might want to get to it, I don’t know how long we have.”

“What?”

Rolling his eyes, Joker grabs him by the neck and pulls him down.“Just shut up and kiss me you fucking moron.”

Electricity ignites his nerves and contracts his muscles; he barely catches himself from falling over.His chapped lips make it a bit rough but Joker’s are soft and pliant and he can’t breathe because Joker’s taking it slow when he expected it to be frantic and violent but then Joker’s lips part and he’s sighing into Bruce’s mouth with a flick of his tongue and shit that was a fucking smooth move. 

It’s not a dream, he’s decided.He’s dead.He died.Maybe a building fell on him.Or a nuclear missile.Or a Robin mistook his throat for a squeaky toy.He’s cool with it.

Joker breaks the kiss to laugh.The sound floats like a song around Bruce’s head, a nymph dancing with the water.He makes to talk but Bruce cuts him off.He’s the one who said they didn’t have much time so fuck it, this is overdue. 

He adjusts his position, covering more of Joker’s body with his own but careful not to crush him.Joker pulls tighter against him, goading.He can hear the sarcasm, taste the words on that sharp tongue that’s still so enticingly soft.When a bite to his lower lip weakens his arms he doesn’t catch himself this time, and then Joker’s arms are around his shoulders and a leg hooks around his hip, and dear God why weren’t they doing this the whole time.Why did he never, even just once, let them release the real tension.The real reason they hated each other so much. 

Because what else can you do, when you know you can never have someone?What else can you do but hate them for making you want them?Desire is such a fickle, fleeting thing, and no matter what, you always lose.

Joker’s grip weakens, the motions of his lips slowing.   There’s a familiar hesitance, a sudden inward retreat.  Bruce lifts his head and opens his eyes.  It’s not despair in Joker’s eyes, nor is it regret, or even sorrow, really.  More like… resignation.  He heaves a deep, heavy sigh.  For whatever reason all Bruce can think is how strong his lungs are.

“Time’s up, Bats,” Joker whispers.

“No,” Bruce states.

It earns him a smile.  Joker cups his face to peck his lips.  “I’m sorry, darling.”  He pat’s Bruce’s shoulders twice.  Bruce shifts his weight but does not make getting up convenient.  Joker is reluctant to rise.

“Why?”

Shoulders hunched, rubbing his face, Joker laughs once.Bruce has never heard him so defeated, never seen him so tired.“Because you have work to do, and you can’t do it here.”He gets to his feet, one motion at a time, almost appearing in pain.He smooths out every crease, dragging time on.“And for the first time ever that truly is not up to me.”

Bruce stands.“Who, then?”

Joker giggles but won’t meet his eyes.“I won’t spoil the surprise.You’ll like her though, promise.Similar taste in color.”

Bruce reaches for his hand.  Their fingers interlock.  With a smile so small and human, Joker kisses his cheek, holding it for a moment.  His hand is trembling.  They’re waiting for something.  Or someone.

The sun peaks over the horizon.There’s a shadow in it, and it’s moving closer.As it takes a more human shape, Joker’s grip tightens.If it is a person, they’re short and thin, and waiting with timed patience.Defeat hangs heavy in the air until Joker steps forward, his hand slipping out of Bruce’s.He lets himself be pulled by it but can’t make his legs move.Joker is reaching back.

“Goodbye, my love.”

“Joker—”

The showman returns.Joker’s stride is confident and cocksure, his stare hungry and his smile murderous.His attention turns to the shadow, unmoving in the backlight of the rising sun.Bruce watches, helpless, as the color drains from Joker’s form and he becomes a shadow himself.He throws an arm around the other, their hand moves to the small of his back…

The world goes white.  Voltage he’s never felt before fries his nerves under burning flesh.  The current electrifies the metal in his helmet, shorting his sensors. His limbs shake with paralysis and he can do nothing but resign to the pain.  When it stops, he grunts and pushes himself onto his forearms.  No signal from the sensors.  Whoever just fried him better pray he doesn’t find his tools.

“Good, you’re awake.”

“Damian,” he huffs, “any particular reason for rearranging my nervous system, son?”

“Yeah,” he says, amused, “you dropped a building on yourself.”

He punches his helmet between the spikes until the sensors crackle back on.He takes in his wounds, his surroundings — an electric chamber, with a hastily-built bed.Charming.The Robins are asleep in a heap.One’s leg twitches.It gives him a giggle, which crescendos into heaving, bloodthirsty laughter.Jagged, broken, and alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This chapter wasn’t planned, but I decided the dream line in chapter 24 needed expanding. And it comes with a bonus. Answer one question, and you’ll get a link to an EXCLUSIVE chapter on Google Drive. If you think you know the answer, email me at olivia_cohen@emerson.edu for a link to the chapter. The question is this:
> 
> Who is the shadow?


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